The wind was a theremin in late march
And we both wavered out of seasons and feelings and creeds
Some tapered, but I usually fell into reason
Every floor that shines and gleams
Sheds its sheen and goes unseen in my eyes
That's if I cower from how he wants things to be
You'd pay yourself with cigarettes
The epileptic dialect in showers from their necks
Hum a lullaby from the breath inside the smoke
I'd dress like a juggler for the circus mirrors
Here, in breadth, it holds no place
But still it's enough to digest and swallow you down
And run from your hands
But it's ok, yes it's alright
My little fence that surrounds
My watering can as it feeds
And helps it grow up through my feet
And through my soul as it breathes
And sheds my shell, opens wide
For sweet and bitter to run from my tongue
And drip away from bleeding trees
The barley brains down Boston Mills
Watching from my windowed porch
It goes by
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