The morning sun, golden bubbling
honey trapped in oaks and ginkoes,
Puddles – those depressions of torn
sky, a woman’s last hat, and a man’s
only pair of gloves.  Wedding rings
in hellium gas, as our blue voices to
filial peaks and punches of old red
turn.  Soft hair that kept its shape
from the lover before.  Why friend,
I could shave it all, layer off layer,
as orb bared from orb, just Schichten,
tiny glimmers, Matris Geschichten.


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