1279
3.vii.23
4.185
busy
all
the parts of day
all
the other days fallen apart
the
chimney straight up with smoke
full
the
heart with having been
and
all to do
so
far behind
a
slower book
paint
on the fingers still
stiff
the
very limbs of time
winter
in this midst
and
in the bones again
so
far down
falling
as
if done to doom
you
won’t fish me out
we spread
like a stain
some
days choose to sink
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