ROAMIN’ IN THE GLOAMIN’
Leaves, be feet for the wind.
A passing of silver hands through the streets,
Eyes moving as though on great strings. Leaves.
Soft golden feet of my own age invents itself
Like a journey or the thoughts of a fine wolf.
Oh we don’t even look at the stars.
So many things keep us from watching.
The sounds of voices my little ones,
Listen to them rise.
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