Who may I hear singing?
Though the tune gets so incautiously lost in dynamite explosions!
In peppermint; I taste it!
In breezes, in ease. In thrift.
In curtains forlorn for those who might but haven't parted them.
Listen to the leisurely red crackling and then in laughing,
Re-cackling--
Listing, as the idylls
of vertigo
found in stacking
Things up to
achieve
the hilarity
of toppling.
The air upon them calms me, which is why I find myself
Asking.
A losing party cuts sentiment in final stone--not so much in conveyance as in tone
Neither theirs, nor their own,
While
From the dim lawn and hapless crickets
The rich fingers of a harp are most
Sweetly and hungrily heard chirping.
Abigail
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