When the hands are cold the feet aren't bold
That's taut logical, moon poems and crime
Against the word, the melody and I swear it won't
It's a fifty fifty future if you say it is
But that's a weight that compresses a spine
Rather than plasticity's lumber mine
Curses to lines that go together
I say: distress fades and meadows feather
With baby birding watching eggs
Crackle on the blueish dregs
Survival knows the different shapes
While my eyes fill with sour grapes

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