the galaxy is the key of the brook
underground (where we ate the snake)
I lost a finger in the garden
the parrot on the iceberg is eating charcoal chowder
above the gulf was a cloud
I was coiled for the radio of the sainted knuckle
in the cloned apple room there is a book of these poems
we are in the pages, too
when I am the galactic, I shall remain in the soil to tend the garden

there is a bear here
eating the popcorn of the normal world
we blame the furnace when there is no ice
we are in the streets
we are in the stew
in the luck of the world there is a new elm
(in the forest of the light)
in the stomach there are birds
and in the air we have a rain
the name of the world is the blinking noun
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