The tuning of the sun squealed out
these notes
against the signs for trespass:
“Beware the hollow of the rot-pines
needling
their plots into the
faltering chapters
of the day not yet composed
in ink
upon the blasphemy of
prayerless matins
sung by distant sirens of
recovery,
offering the hope that
drives the ants.”
Build your piles of future
compost
with heaving yellow swarms
of trucks
and dozers left to strip
sleep from weed
soaked lots left vacant by
the last hurrah
bellowed bullish in
trespassing intervals.
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