still proves useful to glamor
I think of matter as an armor
the bedside trees disrobing
lightened darkness darkened light
this gravid gray’s un-day
the little deaths of winter waiting
in what look like dusty wings
why couldn’t we just love
but no you had to leave
the radios of fall cry out
like crows casting their judgments
both on heaven and on earth
only the grave leads to rebirth
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