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All day and into the next
all wasted agitation
receding and twice round and
down to the shops - the shaded
smells of detergent and noodles

all that summer, trees in phosphor
the light explodes and does not yield.
Back at dusk by the Kirk walls
I pour this petition, it's
gravity falling, through a

mute wall, a pencil thin mouth.
God does not pray for us
in his heaven dear fools,

the tree's hair quilts
rooftops beyond.
This starched sky and

pavement, the moon
and silence.

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