the haw from hawthorn, the scrolled
universe of a single walnut,
refuse,
me, every morning
i walk past the trees loosening leaves in the corridor of that street
which doesn't rhyme, shoe beats and museum-piece
children echoing each other-like
noise follows a flat-palmed hand.
the pavement freckled with a fat rain, offal of
trees rubbed level by heel, wheel until they've settledlike
spots of black white dalmation, how curious. one peers__
gum, scores of it. moulded by teeth into a flat fate.
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