They who love, sitting in fern,
to live
and speak ‘cause they can,
do the Art;
they who rise at the sign of light
may die,
succumbing to the Tree's slow
regrettable leaf—
Look, there's heart & (always last
to the comfy lakes)
the davidic and faithful deer,
living low
and then the sky fuming over you,
full of geese
who know it, too & will die
doing the Art
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