Bollensen

God’s tears have all dried and
their water of crystaline courses
still swirl the earth with ehtereal
etchings of homes that are with
love and bowling fields of grape
seed from Bollensen’s breeds.
Their breeching of the day to
form in their arms a second sun
with brighter rays and sharper
tones, empty drums of concrete
could not spill a heart, nor dullness
envelope itself in a more heathen
clad suit, as if boredom and want
so slipped from the pockets of
despots, to spite the ages of suns
ever spinning in larger fields undone.

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