17.i.22
746
3.17
there
are no straight lines
deep in the house
where you can’t hear the rain
the days of the week forget us
morning’s work is birdsworth
misty and vine
climb, ants
the machine wears out
light wears through
once our people were nameless
it was custom kept
faster than the marchfly
death foreshadowed
a little walk around myself
forgetting where I am
leave webs in the corners
to catch
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