in the upper air
the light upon them fading
into slaked explosions
on a faint horizon fine.
Wheels on the old beeline
to work and withheld honey
extra coffee in the pot
a fallen mask and wig.
Hot plates and heels of ice
a corduroy ceiling.
Chair sunken in the numbers
gluey with their rows
clothed radiant in weapons,
with ambient gaze
I know the limping haze
that comes and sows
the ravens.
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