i’m not seeing any messages in the scattered kid’s objects nor the fallibility of an egg-timer i presuppose the fault lies with me my thirst for windy days faces & doorknobs that twist without a hiss suppose southerlies burst through a coy window every restive night of visitors staying over expecting gourmet meals & micro-brewed beverages to gustate on with the wind / there’s sometimes a pause soaring into view without gingerly coughing & faking a polite pardon ordinary as daylight i’d say my antiphonic ally is becoming bravo & curtly displays one stupid vocabulary all about limits that’s misted argument in all it’s minute grandeur really like i might hate to say such chaste nonsense wearing a towel though i wear it well there’s still a coming darkness to think upon / a spike at weather patterns tends to gives you beauty on a platter / i fuss about it but then use a poem conceived in a routine of kitchen musics to say just grasp that special & soppy pink of a sun cutting through clouds it’s mesmeric maybe for being so swift & oh how it crosses the science of spectrums into orange that’s magic that’s beautiful / i hate to do it but do it knowingly i think there’s something in it

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