Steer into the moss

Were I driving something, the soft green
landing voice on the north side of the trees

makes for a concerned citizenry under the
visible hand of land ownership, taken as the 
motor vehicle you confidently chose for your
t-shirt, and don't fight the second person,

look at the third, for objectivity is its own
imaginary, abstraction is a garden in front of 
a bank, holding your tension as well as your
rank; mulch and the leaves and butterfly 
minutes, fading to eyesight and wood sidewalk 
tenets; haircuts and dogs and quitting common
sense, facing the music of cars driving rents,

watchful the sentences ran on too graph't,
boxes and dots and sunglasses eyes: for gone
contusion on earnestly high, waiting to
honestly terribly lie, frightful the shouting and
buildings in distance, raiding the plenty for
gentry and fixtures.

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