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common
or garden people
(for Ataraxia)
our memories in nameless things
generically – ground cover
and/or we mulch
forget about all selves here
go us first
here pass beyond speech into song
it's as with music someone made once
still we call an air
are walking through webs
are muddied in the shoe
stumble on what wasn't
in a house much unknown mechanism
and every garden has one, has it?
these are the ghosts with whom we abide
one disbelieves concertedly
yet we are returned
by world and sun
by season
breath of it upon us
out of their minds here
in the home paddock
thin on the ground
and make selves scarce
torn things
like a hat of ages
things that drip
lead to a leak
whiff of us
and the too many roos
you can see where snout has been
gone namelessly to night
so many to brush off
we move the water round
it's a circle
in the rough
just where we are
living to light
to be the anonymous author
no greater honour than
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