lark darts hitheree & to
thru sunlipped yards &
airspace indefinite
to the chagrin of fallen seeds
everywhere- for we are beyond
well zoned in this & more.
to wing bygone periphery
in lights of spring &
nary a hawking eye under
which to tremble
on this low noon-
the cooing dove,
the beating thrush,
(atwitter by the caw
of local murders & the
vimming of the jay all
sing of that which
wiggles neath the earth.
as such the grub
& so the worm
& ergo even mole-
all liminal in june.
for these unlikely magi
three blindwisemen
bear no myrrh,
& fixed on stars
for martyred offerings
subsumed as gift to birth.
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