Flame under flame, until the day ends. The cricket’s reverie impregnates sweet deliveries,
gullibly Thoreauvian amongst the green nostalgias, dewy and unreturned. Do not confuse the
red lines on the horizon with the reeds bending in my pupils. Out of focus, back inward. I need
you to understand how much this all matters to me. Sensitive branches, bequeathing every
lost season. Leave the upstairs window, descend the staircase. Follow a row along the shifting
brilliances. Out of focus, now zooming in. Barefoot. Leave it all behind, even a clean grace,
to walk the blue fields.
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