The birth of a poem

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The precise the absurd stripping itself anew
Has without a word to say yet explaining
Where the opened mouth is about to devour

For what one finds directions: if x is without a clue
And y is sartorial neurosis mixing up real life
With fiction you couldn’t even call it forest

But, perhaps, just another darkly secrets
Which are also emerging on the catch and crouched in wait
Walking up right to this, but what is it?

Exactly, the muttering at dusk with alternating turns
Became a hum on a gnarled globe like something
In the shock—

In shadows and crevices with no sense of dread,
Yet nothing took its place identical from the itch.
The birdsong now: utterly.

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