How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.

June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.

The sky is clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.

A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.

Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing moon
When we are gone?

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