The birds crush the stalk summoned up by the secret
of a finger planted deeply
in the supple dry.
Far away from the fresco
an intent wind prints,
the marsh ascends a ladder.

You are like the marsh, its delicate oblique light

The blamed.
Even if one were to read the radiant birth of sin
and the forest which endures a messy execution
one would be attacked
by the painfully collected paper rooms.

 

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