1502
5.41
10.ii.24
aubade
waking to weather
a slow drip sky
in the afternight
grey
so one must lamp it
frog still
all wings becalmed
blear
that a stumble is
green therefrom
as dim
no timpani
nothing bright
cymbal crash
breeze to top
in the leaves
in tree beneath
the afterfalls
nothing sharp
not a line
you wouldn’t think there’d
ever been stars
not even a sliver
moon
there were no
splendid rays
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