Persons painting pots of clay and clabber
red as the silt narrows in eroded hillsides
leaving hot milk to sour under such
storms range asunder in stark-lit fashion
that hillside red again and canals full of broth
wore alluvial gowns foraged while dancing
the river down to poured foam
immaculate necks extend for a stretch
fervent boats pass open sagittal crests on sand
women sheath metal acquire syrup
vanish tonight with ferns ambivalent ants
so their chambers cave out woven inches
osprey eggs rumble their nests answer the red
call friggin motes sorrow and bread arachnid
drum in the fort hit by lightning wherever
patched forms stick fast sacks of plume
hover at last in bursts octagon spots absolve
once, twice, aim and crack casements orange-red
island sands around with fits from the roof fucking
packs of dogs share a bone shank aint it the truth
ah yessir working on it.
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