The rain is falling from the sky like words
in sentences that don't make sense. The flame
of the lamp flickers, all this art is a game
between all people of all eras, the chords
of now are inversions of then. I check the records
of prior weather, the canvases in frames
on the walls of the museum. She has a name
that reminds me of nothing, I can't afford
to lose this immeasured spirit. Words are tools
that fix the future, set the earth revolving
about the Sun in patterns. She is in wool
or denim, the months are filling like the twelve
full moons throughout the year. An other school
of names and propositions goes unsolved.
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