Morning,
horse-breath disturbing
the
cold air inside the cup
Wake up
my fellow gardenia
dry
feet & hatred terrified
of my
heart, I can’t do anything
about
it if everything I showed you
was a
further kind of concealment
Sockmouth.
Castles of trout. What is
they
are me. The shoes around the faces
of the
dead. This one has no head
& above
the darkness of old table
wood the
cardsharper’s hands sprout pink
splitting
buds. Terror as a god of indolence
One
wicked Indian alone in the weather
knowing
the sign for love
but
what does it mean. I the loath dirigible
sadness
never as improvised as one feels
Closing
the book in the cold-lashed
pewter
afternoon—Breton!
—envy is
joy
—no,
exultation
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