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walk

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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