constellations of spring held together by swift and string dance me into ageless laughter like run to far, the distance to be won! the petals are free now. handcupped in rainy day bright with beelit flight and let us not as the deer and the fox be such friends of night I am a figurine in just figments as would a silent storm, or a disheartened lily-white fellow stranded in the rose, an airless frame we sing at night now brazen or steadfast or just plainly still flight (frayed) our hours are meager and goner, and goner.
This - your ghost - unshadowed in Times Square as if its walklessness inevitable performs to streetdrummers, to share their wafting of disheartened, dull melodies and ballads unsung. what noisy cats are we, what uncalm stirs in us to forget the task, to slight the busy after the solitude and lull of the dusk. and here, from open window, This is watched like religion, as if I too, suffer the songs beautiful and remedial, but as often dodged as the preachers of numb gospel, familiar along sad, ruined streets. then, in midst of waking hour This - your ghost - lowers into deep corners to cower.
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