in the gloam of undelivered winter
i pin mad hope
on the accruing spring lands
it is impossible pressure
i know
for only a season to shoulder
& the hope is in the hope of it
on the accruing spring lands
it is impossible pressure
i know
for only a season to shoulder
but the emptied airs all dead
& in need of natures basting
like a polo mint hole
if the hope is anywhere
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