The lawns lay flattened as sallow
straw and the wet setigerous bristle
on the backs of the fling darts
of rabbits, their jagged glides
along the ending night’s fog

lifting from dauntless snow,
weighted down, feculent grime
from thawed winter storms,
repeated in months wrought over
with the slow shed of bark broke
and rubbed off, the omissions
from last year’s autumn.

The brown troves had been nursed
without any assumable refuge,
a tract of forms cut loose
and the fine cracked
pedestrian worn terra cotta
piled onto the back porches,

with containment, as the wheel,
somewhat actual basic
fingered assumptions that have been,
if so happen, through on migrated
triflings of understanding, carried
about on intended copper rivulets
and the over cloaked possible sky.

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