J. Fossenbell



_______after H.D

Rapid! We will always have us with us.

We run our domestic sheep.
We reduce control and monitor salt marshes.
We serve the domestic. Worship.
We, the one-legged trees – flowers on the left.
We forget tastes. We have a wooden decoy.

We only want to wander in the nutty mountains,
searching for oak problem oak treatment
We, a bunch of woody-stemmed hydrangea
to those drooping big-head ranunculus.

Our conclusion: we laugh.
Each branch branches again from leaf solution to trunk problem.
We dig at a stone half buried, kick the subsumed fence, feet worn
from roots and heel cups, bloody oak seeds.

We forget to worship, we are green, green, split.
We try polar ice, a delicacy on the tongue.

Barely able to understand slots
among the pores in trees that will defend.
Hold up the department in a positive way and feel
like a tree posing in back.
Hill and Mountain,

Gum, resin, rubber treatment.
A branch with sweat-smear.
It tastes sweet.

So we are happy
with tufts, grass problem grass treatment,
long or short—
We love it all.

But now the ship goes up, falls easily
Our successor suspects we drew in some of the lines.
Please, Swift!
There is nothing we will always have.

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