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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