that which passes collects somewhere waiting for its meaning how’s this for a thought poetry tears the cloth even as it repairs it
you don’t have to buy it to break it it’s a broken season too far past beaucoup love’s angel is firm a beautiful sound, doloreuse
mirror rhymes with error erde with mére to touch the first land you must have swum far earth’s distant as a star where all the crimes occur there are other trees beyond the trees we see
