glass

Pine branches raise the sky like a wayward child
with all its aircraft and feathered creatures, broken wings
and lost umbrellas. Thongs and sandals
trample on the squishy clouds and
blind watermelons. Thunder is
a cheesy fiction invented by the foppish stars
in the daytime. The map is always in the voices
of water that are prone to argue like
mad jellyfish over a piece of glass.

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