the thin whistle
and pea soup
drilling like a huge wasp
over the children’s supernaturalness
and early hurt.

i dreamt you
were tiny on the arm
of a chair, hair
pumped out like smoke

and had a bearing, though
the sun soon burned you out, right
happily like an ant into null
through the glass.

the heaviness is always
illusory- i am nothing and
soon to pass,

the morning
blows back/forth on the line
and love is a black

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