The botany of dreams, the snow on the mountain
Stirs the air. Pleasant enough, a future with
Fish, let the nose be cold so the lungs
Stay warm, it's what I've learned, it's what
I've done. Who knows, and when we blend
It could be there is morning traffic,
If all plants are monsters and they eat
A final image. The lodestone sings a service,
A triangle's bones, the outermost whorl.
The calyx often remains. She gives her night
When white they beat them, the brothers, each
Told the other, found stars among the grasses.
My cares are beggars. I'm done with society.
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