Bright noon, I am tired.
I
am tired of your light upon the garagey floor. Bits and bits of hay and
dust, this dreamy thing in sideways. I want your bike to ride out with,
some kind of anniversary, a buffet. Dearest it is the first day of the
year and we can not speak anymore. We're like Dolittle and Lawrence in
the dark with our own outlines and broken branches. The trace of the
first day in every day, in these juniper trees on the side of the road.
Go out on the veranda at dusk. You'll see what I'm saying in heaps of
wet trees, in loops of time, at dusk.
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