Hey little doggie, I should have danced with you. Made you mine by the Huckleberry light.

Blessed days they swinged

Blessed Days they swinged, singed! Days in retirement, sitting soundly bitch in November. Grow time.

My will is getting willier, leafier; a here unherded, grazing sweet, sweet-hearts all up in this pasture.

Cheaply and chirpy [you herd me], my cattle head that-a-ways, brown cattleproof Cattle.

Hoof marks the holler of yellower grasses, of time’s light hair, parallel blues. Hey little doggie, I should have danced with you. Made you mine by the Huckleberry light. Stand still now will you. Have you any stars? So blatantly up there. Milky, milky there? A fixture in the lurid tubers of time.

Hey little doggie, Hey blue moon. Your paths thereof, grassy and bitter.

A sword of my days’ inattention swiveling, cow-cow weathervane on top of the barn. Hardy hard days laid among what other details? Hoarding the richest of times, the fog on the way, the humbug.  Subtler times, puddles. Lurch of the swing/Swang the dampers of time, a quiet alignment of scooting


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