Inside the room
a painted cloud
music of
a violin
the flowers already
starting to fade
scent of incense
always masking
some odor
of death
Outside the window
clouds are real
so is
the sky
earlier
I walked
among the cut-up branches
of a beech
September
knocking at the door
I myself
am crawling out the window
dancing over
a distant hill
the grass so green
this summer
my body
in many ways denied
always telling me
it's there
telling
and telling
until at last
I have to listen
sunlight through
the window
so wonderful
this time of year
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