There is a poem presented in glass form, chills of summer. A whisper of father and mother makes increment, glistering patois. Shades of Apache clouds cling to New England willow. People are not panicles, no matter how planted. Last thought is first thought.
a revolution glancing each acorn magnified by space purpose re taliates upon purpose inference of language by mask each tree magnified by time peopled place people each calling of the people in time to be there each is own
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