1397
Markwell
aubade
little years in the web
woven to light
and dusty there
letterbox disintegrates
and that’s the old age done
scratch down
they’re working on the real again
believe that’s what you call it
the moment me
bubble up
or blister
shake off like a dog
from this last mud’s dam
it’s all the drought
can throw me for
and I’m no more in love there
than with this face I make to dream
where float in a mote
lit morning
keep off the road
stay out of mind
still and still
I hear the machine
just so
a
first bird sings
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