1913
6.86
27.iii.25
poem at the end of
your head
I am a small potato
death is coming
fast
the day before there was a road
I have slept beyond
grown over
it’s under a wish where I am
time has returned to its shell
stars explode
in places where we are broken
revel
some days away in a painting as well
down in a tune to sing
wake up to it
the night gone out
we all forget to delve
to reach and yet
the animal sees
to see is to know
strokes of the tree are a sky
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