The March rain
Is disappearing
From the brain

And in the end the dishes and suds
Of walking trees

The crowbars and feathers

A spoon shaped sun

The heart loses at mini golf

This sorrow is ample
Simple
And hardly sad

Is a necktie
Hanging around like an old cat

When it would rather
Parading like fisticuffs of morning joy

This sorrow is ample
And bright and is hardly true

And so most true of all

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