When I’ve incorporated all the cold
I can in my innocuous flippers
I come inside the spindle.
It takes about half an hour
for that dead birdseed I put out
to start singing stormy
hates windy sea chanteys.
Like our local water
you leave a ghostly residue
on our collective hips just saying.
All words are twins
of which there are two types
the same and the nicer one.
So it multiplies in the soul
trying everything on the menu
as if so to speak a divine being.
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