the light is plaid windowthing a flare
sitting on my head a little
duende / weeds almost touching riverend
to end / ‘our boat’ is no, we paid
for the time entirely bob-
bing wooden nose, aft, never
do we dance, growing upended rosemary / thyme
in corn cans, bean cans, green wire, orange and dull
pots, as we ever are tacit , floored,
hayed forth on white nerves, a frog lands
on my check, badda bing, Sunday’s one and after
one whap, forgotten, reclined inside, Georgia curled
like a cup on the grass / Wire me rotten tins
along the fence, herbs in a bed of numbers,
a kitchen which / where / when we called the dog
hugger ‘ugger’ pointing to the dock
7 day garden
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