We lie on the cusp of what is blue
up and round, to express
our hearts is destroy them,
and in understanding we gain a transient peace,
but…
The forest is dark, the brown shack of
music glows with party dwellers.
It is warm here, the damp American rain,
the toads sing their heavy song.
It’s no wonder that this sound
was born here,
this cusp of what is blue.
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