This is how the night will play out:
No waterlimos, no gulls to descend
On peanut bags, no bag boater's shout.
No reason to shout.
The vine won't wither when you
Decide a kiss goes afoul
The grape won't taste of poison
The gland won't spout.
What nature, my tongue
And these lines
Content to go elsewhere,
Diverge, disambiguate, reroute
As if by suggestion of numbers
A pudgy zero will think, then mouth
Navigate a tipping bow by it, then
Lose it in the heaving salts, eye
craning, wisdom and its bounding amount,
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