walking we collect the sights
of trees strung lights and other stems
plucking the smells of a rose
the sunset disked by coming fog
to tie these in a string of night
and make of them bouquets
star lit
by the winking hill
by the moon’s soon intersection
with bright Venus
of trees strung lights and other stems
plucking the smells of a rose
the sunset disked by coming fog
to tie these in a string of night
and make of them bouquets
star lit
by the winking hill
by the moon’s soon intersection
with bright Venus
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