every four years we intercalate
a day to correct an error
in time, but the
whole thing is
a goddamned error.

this was is now and will be, and this
will be already was and forever
is, and this is will be
again and
was eternally

time is only an obstruction, a clotted
sodded embolism, a clouded and
forgotten stigmatism. to

spindle trees striping
the sunset orange sky. to
squirrel whispers and
Bald Man hands scented by
chicken jerky. the longing,
Honey cries.

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