Mountain-quietness & me: just two beings being beings.
Albums…albumens…softly cook: the unobtrusive little things.
Nothing has nothing to do but nothing: & nothing — it needs no time for preen.
Discourse assumes cerebral hums: into the throat’s berceuse they lean.
If’n — though — in some strained surrounds…the chin must drop/ease off its clench,
Brevity of the voice be mine extinguishing out the staunchest stench. —
Latched onto blue-lilacs’ song, there I be a frugal finch.
Ever if I a squally heap, I rest my groan on Sunday’s bench.
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