I hold my hand to light - the sky a field of green behind the flesh
My veins and trees and some other things merge into a skin color
Someone told me that the sentence is a possible record of carnage
That a judge will pull out the desired effect like a string from a sweater
And the unraveling will be spectacular -
I am sure that the universe cares little of blood and scales
That in the end the thread will not pull so much as un-thread
A violence of evenness - of being forever separate
You there - little period at the end of this line - what's the weather like.
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