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hum
joshua mckinney
when i smelled green through the blur
where its wings were, felt
the whir of their arc, heard the red
afloat in the foxglove -- my only desire was
to tell you.
my weed-work stopped. hands
in earth, i knelt by the garden wall,
and suddenly that world seemed remote.
i called to you, aloud, and the words i spoke
were 3, broken, each one an arbitrary token
of the tiny bird that came to kiss the flowers.
it was then i knew my exile's full extent.
the phenomenon of 4 sound is brighter --
sheer 5 now there then --
than the hours of thought without flesh. once, to be
at one meant to act, so i have tried to make this
matter.
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garden
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