sincerely yours
the other way

inside a house

Slight birds.

Whose music is our music. A wickedness. Accompanied.

By inflation. These trees have organized. My time.

Into space.

We were wholly frustrated then.

No one in that world would dare speak of “components.”

Too many ears, you see. So who do you say they are?

 

One. Just one.

Who has written this. Our something. At last.

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