Container: Sounds Like

Begin at the end of time:
the cliché at the top of all dilations,
minds are ill-defined by their start,

pointing out of seasons the psyc(holo)gical
e(con)omy  endures on its way from your
head to your hands; once again the second
person raises its heart to a sun that stained
the moon by cloudless night, unconcerned 
with subjectivity unless there is no forest 
for the trees to rest after the noisy autumn.

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