19 Feburary

March 3, 2014

The atmospheric masses headed West today.
And I am perusing the cypress here
Wanting nothing.

The garden-lot is dimmed
For their eternal migration,
Closed in on itself,
Having been passed over
This afternoon. The lichen,
And even the frustrated vines
Have on the brick wall taken on
A steel-blue, pallid hue.

The occupants of this garden
Are not without indifference to horizons but
also possess
Some kind of permanence.

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