This Urn
this urn
beside the sun
golden like the moon
old moon’s teeth sparking
some slow white light
rusting & fresh
old careless bin
beside the mid-day sun
in a century
of some thunder-stormy years
a-waft in a forest
of a billion breathes
the eye twists her bright-set
urge
upon
thine dim’d old bloom
ah, rusting & fresh being!
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