where I wait beneath
a sledgehammer of rain
for the lost awakening
and the shape
of your name in my hands
that has gone missing
a thousand teacups floating
on a mighty river
give off a plaintive light
and turn in the current
I watch from a disconnected terrace
the lingerie of night trees and their leaves
waving farewell to a curveless world
man's dead straight lines ending in sand
before the palace of the sky
engulfs the written rye.
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