When birds

wrapped their fists on that wire and two dropped like handkerchiefs on the porch. Watched them silver simple like tines, like people we think like. I forget what you said. The rain went to the windows and we slept ass-up in the tent. Chickened in that fat down bag. The moon shut it’s eye then look, light like we are trees, no more than places to intimate. You gave me a feather. It’s delicate, discrete, despite everything sounding sacred, again burning my music, this is a feather. The sky so clear clean nothing at all in it, I think man, that was genius. The roots we willed into soaked oak, then tempting the toad out like a heart. The many extra-conversational beleifs when we looked up for what, some hours, drenched lizards skeddadle between leafy flotsam. That’s exactly and now I think not of what you said, but you sooner or later looking up. Yours was of deer, that your neck is strong and thin, and bitterly we both agreed the way it rains, it picks us out.


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