Violence: where is that man
the round sash of the future
in a wash of September spearmint
pulsing toward supine city love
in canticles, the sound of opals
and bunts against the shift.
The curtains rumble, so soft.
Now I remember my dream, the drool
an epicycle, halogen crust
breaking into books. Now I know
the spiral demesne, the
movement, wrens pooling
everyday into their cave
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