Yellow or brightseeming anyway, it smells crisp in the morning. It
sounds like zippers on opening tents. You are drooling, my love, asleep.
Zippers yawn across acres, louder than a loon, a good
irruption. Awakening. An uprightness.
It smells crisp, and is crisp, and dad eats true cereal.
The lake is unbreakable like a foggy mirror,
and my brother laughing rolls his kayak, foot
tangled, and drowns there as I splash around these rotting shells.
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