Gloaming ridges
shear golden flashes
thru lilt-leaved
dream machines.
Hospitalized, I see joy,
fragile one-time golden lightness that flashes across
my bed w/redwood tufts waving in & out.
Caress this hillside w/cars,
motorcycles, roar obtrusive.
Still, I hear birds. And
time is the opposite of love. There is a fixed amount; it
doesn’t matter who you would be.
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