you sleep for clay
cut your bloom at your ankles
for an undercover life of clothing
dozing uneasily in another city
maybe the last one
no directions from the yellow stones
on the windowsill
for the fading lessons
even the elevated spectacles
all sick of the dark
steering the ear
to the trampled necklace
the long stem
saddest line pointing out the sky
to its roots
the pasture's singing shatters
agonies and celebrations in the distance
something huge hidden half~open
wakening crying cracked and dreaming
whispers in the depth of the noise
the crushed hybrid
the prism of winter
the masses the concrete
the hours of a lighthouse
insist you understand your brightness
being destroyed on the roads
the sword in the rose
the question knocking at the
ghost
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