--Han VanderHart
I do not know whether it is morning or mourning,
the name of the doves calling in the hems of day
sometimes, I do not know the spelling of a single word
or why the couple gesture in their car making a left turn
tonight the clouds settle on the mountains: pale pink
and then mist, and then no mountain
almost every day I say to someone: “it is not important”
but the wing of it the beak the onyx eye
is that I do not know this either
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