leaves curse the silence
like empty hands in the black of
the sea grasping the rumors of stars,
curse the clouds
like the quarreling of sea birds,
the absence of cities,
the smell of flowers sneering.
i have had it with well written poems,
mine sleep with squirrels in lion colored skies, wearing
worn shirts pit stained with poesy,
leap from the discord of tranquility
into the clear animosity of thunder

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