MOTIf
They return to trade
places they come back to play
among wet stones under
the fence along the path, to
fly out from sockets of air.
Not to imagine changes ---
static to movement gray to
dead metallic -- crop
crop into the brightly zoned
animate debris. To look,
to be scolded by a form
on the clock’s deadpan face.
Just below artifice
trillions again arguing for or
molesting the body’s opaque revision.
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