the time, over
deep and near
north west, a neat tree
bound for years
in French
wings spread sights
a welcome over-cast
hills and me sitting
naked on damp grass
(it rained in my yesterday)
black frock coats, a situation
I am used to.
a basket filled with a fruit
I can’t make out - nor desire
to
if I build it
will
you?
.
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