roars of laughter backwashed
out there, backing up against
a great big silo, to
the sky sighing windmills
redundant and bloated,
a bit, facing more upward.
Into these tunnels of growing grass
up down their walls we’re speeding...
and even more so
the smell of sand off the shore
by night rolling in,
by car, and distant footfalls
I hear here. Waterfalls
windmill current endlessly
the way we talk one another
without end; the day
stretched to night will
return a day again.
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