Feed on


in the t-shirted midday he jogs away

the three kilometres, sheep seem profound


considering things less than last year,

perhaps more alive / or, a blanketish blasé


it’s the crows on this stretch of road, big

fucking things, that make themselves notable


he notes them later, legs sharing a blanket

with her, the adjectives of light that


make things gold / i copy thomas

uncertainly, wondering at


birds & death on a birthday


yeah i appear at the end

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