A devotee of trees (their branches), unsubtle
Dedicated to the farmers and their grace
With diminishing years, but amplified flowers
This slowness we received from handshakes

A "vision" across the room, animated talking
With her hands and black hair, a coincidence

We use computers for relief from the tragic
Deceits of self-awareness diluted for "the poem"
Who speaks in failure tones, unaffordable
Feelings of place, gesture, unaware fingers

It took one sentence, or one phrase, on glance
Even to calm us and sustain the hallucination
For days and days, speaking repetition's ohm

It was always "a sham" ("but the shambles is a sham /
A few angels on their farm") we might just visit villages
We might speak to each other in code, franchise
That "poem" feeling to make sure it is dead

Happy with eyes and legs crossed at night
Under the warmest stars, who've published
Manifestos for the architects who shape my words

Who was the Muse, her inimitable beauty
Who encouraged my delusionary grip on the keys
It is a study of addiction (words, limbs, curves,
Buildings, trees, houses, voice, self, "vision")

Why should you "publish" these drafts?
Because they deserve their unfluency
And this apple we hope to buy at 7 Eleven
Is for research purposes, all symbols and
Concise evasion, wanting to read myself

Writing for thirty-three and stanzas, overwrought

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