A long line, thick stem bracing its leaves
In the sway-fro, the red and the green,
And far a flash. Tree trunks travel the sky,
Gathering air around in purple patches
And a denim suit. It is a time for fingers
Punishing the scalp, holding heads,
And all the mysteries they trace, fingers
Over every appearance of air
Folding back into light,
Bodies of the green besides,
Touching the white walls
In the course of a different color,
Plaster -- solid, high,
Quivering and alone.
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