1235
20.v.23
4.140
I love a fence
gone off its
way
left
languish
nor by wire
now touched
perhaps its
others are taken for smoke
scratches of
pencil on paper
perhaps sunk
far in time
just a post
stood
where the
rust once fell
sculpt first
some rings
of a tree
for a while
can you call
it such?
it’s for the
ants to carry away
it’s for the
worm
for pure rot
in the end
this map in
the head
is lost
and still
such a place
will be
somebody’s home
this too is
a sort of soil
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