Reeds Move

By | 1 May 2017

Reeds move. Might such eavesdrop
hearing forest: hide the bruised hips.
Slug hands call the shell its shadow—
never phone baby, but I pear. Light the seasons:
sleeping of collapse, slight bending,
five white in trees rather than puddles
warped away.
Symmetry of violet. Museum ahead:
analogue yesterday. Witching meat
but swim daughter, noise: the rain, the rain.

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