sorrow is a handful of dust without words, it is simple and plain to a fault,

and what difference a few birds like a few words are all that’s left of blue stars whose laughter is scarlet chopsticks,

blue stars with yellow brains of dust, of the green of dusk, like used car lots in the month of May,

the dizziness of daisies setting fire to gravity,

it is the brighter darkness that does not need the rhetoric of flames

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