bergamot and feather-dew
his face crumples in the rain
lies down as though jet fighters
along the wet forest rides nothing yet
it's coming, coming
a drum somewhere
think of the time as
ash think poetry that runs down
from the penetrated
the tapped
bark
that forms into a latex ball
that bounces off amongst the trees
that you, most of all, you, can not
leave without this ball-bell
this or that
that has now buried itself up
in the leaf moulder
broken down like it had never anyway
this song is not called
what is bergamot?
I didn't hear the siren
but neither did you
not after the drum that started
far off, as if
my hive my hive
no, no
I was having time
never in doubt
the Autumn leaves
forever
[em dash]
.
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