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

I have no words, but the rummaging hand of god for a cuff,
Flowers along the road for a head,

What if you surmise the billion billion hopscotch of the brain, count the ounces of a solar flare,
And of death adjust the brim of this hatted life?

In no absolute sense are wild apples green, but also like the red legs of distant clouds,

I never knew my heart could be so young against the finite orchestra of stars

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