how very feathered are the gesture weeds. they plush low sky. we north them when we walk dayside. we join our limbs with breath, rehearse forgetting as art. a fevered pacem.
longing keeps. we hold the moment without will. and soon the stretch of days equals a life to talk about. lone man still forging methods, following his way. a soft parade of motions that don't flex.
afternoon connotes a mild time that extends. maybe with sufficient gold a thread becomes discretionary as the powder wings of moths and nascent fluttering. a likely joy that weighs that much.
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