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on the strangeness of all signs
and some of a sunset struck
the birds of and fish
they are of time
or quilt about the evening
from meaning, where we’re lost
I hate when they rotate the view
heavier than air
an irony declared won’t fly
we’re come by claw
sound it as sea
smudge, some projected
conch from
truth is the all-beyond of telling
cannot know what it will be
because the work is everywhere
and they are of time, the marks
the bleak march
it’s for gone-ness, such as was
once, had to paint saints
certain shapes are already there
a feathered edge of tide
play circle, square, splash chased
throw stars a bone
I do so toss the lines till bite
breeze up
shield sun last
mirror dip just
then twilight’s for a glimmer
only an arrow shows
all the shadows shine
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