125.
Bruckner
no matter how
hard you try
to fly your
feet remain rooted
in the soil
118.
I rake
them into a
pile pulling them
into a row with the
other golden fragments
after one last fling on wing torn
from their loft by random winds to
rest in a cluster now accumulating
faster than I can make account
in my faltering gate bearing
the sum of temporal
ventures lost in the
close of another
season
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