I am wearing a green sweater,
Summer for armpits and distant birds for a neck,

It has no words, the green sweater, but the rummaging hand of god for cuffs,
The silence of spokes, trench flowers along the road for endless seams,

It’s somehow even pretty, though not really,
Sublime like old shoe laces you’ve been meaning to throw out,
How leaves fill up a tree like a fastball


This sorrow is ample
And bright as it is blue

This sorrow is simple
Hardly here and hardly true

What a simple anticipation
Without integers decimals or letters in its name

Yet it was never there

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