Every abrasion of
spinners gravitates toward
barn doors in a mausoleum corridor
naming descendants of those
“Taken in ffreemen in this Town”
who married the following year.
They’ve always hoarded offenses
and neglect to ease up
verily, verily –
So we tend weeds, spread mulch,
argue, and I resolve to give you
no more than you give me.
Indoors, outdoors all the same
until dull days rain.
You pluck lilies and laurel from stone rows.
In the morning, we tally symptoms.
You pack for camp. Order train tickets.
Clear out the dripping cellar.
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