All on the vine,
all in a row,
how languid they move,
first fast,
then slow.
Let’s try to catch up to fall behind,
but clever is lost
on severed time.
Now what will we do when they descend?
What happens when conversations end;
over the telephone,
out of the light?
Softly they’re singing
they'll eat me tonight.
And you’ll run as I crumble
to feathers and dust,
my bones exposed,
in the murder of August.
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