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a thin forest feels

spongy to a long wind.

propane tank hard

to a small butt.  off

along the road, that’s just

how we talk,

ever since the road.

 

rolling petals of banana flesh, plopping

brownie pancakes the late hills of our young mountains,

we have butter knife skin along the fingers

now c’mon shake mouth on it.

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we won’t start out

with what we want

knowing

we can’t understand

our own imagining.

 

talk the sun in love,

hot space, an onion frog

spreads thick petals

feet sank thickly

as just-brushed, fast ink figures.

wind now just for spruce tops.

ear popped in high water

elevation much moon

included verily, soft flame you can’t see noticeably,

every fence post counted,

if you counted as

they faced you along.

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