I.
fat sparrows stab at
the jagged breadslice,
the heel of the loaf half-soaked
in a gravy of rainwater
puddling under the arches,
whitewashed, framing
this postage stamp of green
--hedgebordered, at the
center a fir, heavy-branched,
garlanded with
electric orbs in April
II.
ah, and do we see
the lights dim--oh,
Burke, think well of
charges, and surcharges,
I charge you, reconsider
these attachments of
our income
III.
rain pours down,
triple lights swing
as paper lanterns do,
almost weightless,
battered by the character of wind
that raises up
wreaths of leaves, smoothbrown,
thinveined, brittle-edged,
a rustling crown to
dip and edge away,
finally undone entirely,
sent their scattered way
as you puzzle out the traces of the
weird script sandblasted
off the blond bricks, so
many bars of gold, they
glimmer, mirage-like
as you perch on the monkey bars
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