Pumpkin lark in the nursery, dolls

withheld in nude canvas like
persimmons in paper, it’s true
the cupful afternoon lessens
the crush of

what is written, it’s hot
on the lawn’s tray, its noise
of movements through moral leaves,
box of jam pie.

Heed the rag of
      time, calm pool of birds
      docking on the dirt world.

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