this much blue-sweated surd, it
comes down from the sky
exactly, lights a grey bay in mind
the crease in season spends ruthless
flowers on snow that made it, we are trying
to accomplish our map
the dense leaves were challenging
as they rung from the trees
mere arsenals were so complete
as to pay attention, fallen
with the math of after exam
now merging is appropriate, lost
in hate of any country named forever
but only so far as principle needs
something
the turn n he road exhausts us,
the grey moistens with rain
because it is there
we refuse commas now
finding their drama
too plain
