1356
18.ix.23
4.262
the vanished hour
in which fandango misting
all mountains up
I tighten
go where words make otherwise
a murder to picture out
new colours fresher than paint
people of other ages come in
(strange headgear, quaint phrases)
do they know they’ve only the hour we’ve lost?
or else the bullet arrested for prayer
by means of a book
make one room another
and you
just eyes
all in
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