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The roads are alive with moments
Alive with the juice of the elements

The Grove is alive with sketchy pants and barnacles
Parading loonies on a flower bed procession rolling on

The village bicycle beams on
In the echoes of one another in the loft
Fables near the west bank scattered through the landing pads

Wild at heart soaking in bloom fiddles
And the pebbles seek no permission to reflect from their backs

The double yellow line of roadside candlelight
Is paved with cross dressing miniatures
Curved in scrap metal forged and hinged on swirly feathered cracks

Being, watching, excreting, the magic delicacy
Collage of soul cake, my pot of gold, recipe of illumination
Skyscraper fabric woven in vision flicks of orbit