I see a chaos seeping into
fall and art and falsity.
Tilted eyes, sewn on by smaller woodland creatures,
interludes of pacing and spacing, out.
Lines point from each thing around me and past me.
As I lay upon green boulders,
and forget one, two, or three things that do not matter,
to me or the time-less.
I aim my eyes at a line and follow it home,
near a frog close to a pine-cone rolling past an anthill.
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