tissue paper squares, yellow-gold
stacked in slices
pasted to the grainyblack sky
and the moon
overhanging, wise
the warmth of kitchen walls
of major thirds,
this unnamed time
sing to it,
an aria pure
spun, spinning
speak nothing
what we've said before
we've said wrong
sing instead
sing only of the yellow squares.
what must be heard
is all there.
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