beyond the hinderance of prose
fresh from burred and stinging lanes
as with so many of our dear teachers
in the sweeping hunger of a forced house,
two lovers thread themselves.
oh sam, why do you throw the last
glass from the table?
when our mercilessness night comes
a real effort pours from the gutters,
a smoldering; and a mother
forcing radishes into the ground.
one wonders, of such a night;
is the barking of the morning its dawn?
i pull up the blinds to condense
that process of fading in.
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