Tell Me How Long I'm Supposed to Stand with the Body

 

A brook. A bone.

The two short ways

we never went.

The little poet has read

his insipid little poem

to spring, and now he's done

so we guess it's summer

and okay to take a sip as the jug

goes 'round, the poison's

sublime, hailing as it does

from the mountain, riding

the big agates down.


 

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