How the clouds concave
Into my blooming
Fields of far away splendour.

Every crow has a name
and every name being called out.
This timeline
No longer stands invisible.

Hiding under the sunlight

What is this shrinking
Where eyes
Meet eyes
Yet visions so poorly contorted.

Maladies exchanges
And some good old grammatical parsing.

I see the odes to the night
Or are they

I cannot tell yet.


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