et 8 ate

walk yourself some pork trotters
some dear pork trotters walk yourself
beneath blankets clean with dust from
a 19 away house. the children run to
conflate and then new ones again,
house quiet of red packets,
loud with fireworks that in this decade dare to scare
not in hand and into tyres –a shiver shock happiness–

but into smoke, air, hands transposed
to ears and not more fuel.
even without crawling after tradition
we shred the wax from giant candles from flower gardens,
a passing that remains, an abalone-linger. like sticky stick
the zinc spurts with every fold of mandarin,
old tongues on diamond-bedded sofas tasting
other lovers. stochasticity,

two spring cleaners.
and after largeness the trees are still bleeding
the same grains, flurry flours that melt
to a stop by stop by stop by stop
an eeny meeny miny moe
these voices still running, top-speed and drifting
taking turns pointing fingers
a year a date a passing that’ll stick. 


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