by SJ Fowler
Tyme: is that which makes your pockets wet with blood
that nothing can still or staunch.
Throw earth into mouth & you’ll hear the song of grass
a song of how the worm will win
Lions, listen, they’ll put you in colour’d Museums, stuffed
with desert sand.
Under glass, labelled, in the quietness you will be scentless
& play a music we can no longer hear
notated thus
XXX      XX         XXXXX   XX             X

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