some steaming neighborhood that drifted off
I sit beneath a thatch of goldenrod and bees
watching the old moon disappear
into some further data
no memories link like worms
to this disc or its forcefield
scenes shift so many times their outlines burn
puddles of metal glisten
with what reflections learn
when the spirit has flown away
too late to kiss the healing flesh
bled deep into illuminated roots
the titter of distant tongues
far from a slab of frozen mud
cracked ribs of this latest version
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