The Tremulous Radio Operator

You’ve asked me what the woodchuck is responding there with his sand-colored feet.
The bridge attracting from my nose.
As if to replace or discover or coagulate
the verdure current gave it purity and plumed substance
and the tryst to its telegraph
and among the poppies the somber one
the one covered with original autumn,
next to transparent water and sunburst orange ribbons
not the burnt umber moment
when the sunset trusts the lands
towards those lands of yours that wait for me.

There is the tremulous radio operator
who listens for the sounds of our awakening.

Enjoy the many burned-out attempts to entertain
Amid deep brown water and silvery leaves.
Cashmere water to my lashed candle!

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