pack your porch we're going to the Andes for a cup of thistle tea we will be elderly again a little while a little worse for wear performed by ear for fear of falling off the page versus or-castration semination choreo-graffiti linea along the rough plane of a hurting game untamed by habit and by force of leering anchors in the pillar posts with print on them
the city washed by light held fall leaves on trees I saw no yellow and no maple and no crisp brown I saw summer down in baked blue light I walked all afternoon toward the mid of night the city had a rapture in its open cloth held sway there was a mid-line to our day
We bumped into each other on the small dark trail I always took when I was tired of mankind. 'Pardon me son,' the frail man whispered like leaves rustling. 'It's ok the way here is narrow,' I replied impatient to move along. He hesitated. 'Please spare a moment son?' he begged. I sighed and stopped. We faced each other on the small trail suspended for seconds in the same time and space. 'Thank you,' we said at the same time after a moment. Then we left on our opposite sides of time.
let it be chapter sans verse allow me to impose my diagram upon your snakeskin bag of dominoes what year is this whose fear to my ears whatever ramified intelligence can stabilize what we are worth how are we worthy what immense derangement can be styled for your reflection with detected forms of innocence my brag only incises your revolving adaptation to the wingspan of somebody other than this flair bird this sequel this dominion
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