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my fingers are talking with their hands
and so a picture goes missing, a
frighted tree trunk harbingers a
sense of perpetual loss, this disgrace
is only a figure of pathos, of wilderness
sight lines grow dim, chairs rustle toward
the center, but only for viewing dilapidated
acres, a brief of hollow under the
scarecrow moon, telling time a
circularity smitten with poor judgment,
a wealth of distraction, conveyances
upon a patter of unenlightened dirigibles—
propeller skylight offers weeds of transmission
a staple with a scrap the only trace remaining.