the long legged lungs of city clouds,
the turmoil that comes of starry puddles
polluted like wild flowers on city streets,
the organization of december boughs
on the day before it snows,

it’s true the heart with fiery levers
propounds what it sees,
be it the color of a spring suitcase,
i tell you, the heart meddles in the fantastic and the simple,
be it the color of spring,
or the organization of december,

on the broad shouldered effort of aboriginal joy,
the bravery of dusk is spring
unspelling birds of moonlight

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