Sunday, April 11

from summer

good morning, cold morning

you showed us our breathing and we showed you our smoke rings

which in you, cold morning

were run thru confused and clung to by our breath

being no longer rings or plumes or even fluid casts of our pink lungs

but leviathans

above our throbbing heads, canopy-crest &

still strung in leaves like scales, like chimaera

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