Probed

where will the tunnel emerge from in this
house of time’s drippage, water
escaping down corridors of forgotten sound, noises

rumble in an adjacent orchard
tempting while ruminating upon legions of unforeseen
coasts, to lean on a forest
costs

what is not easily knowledgeable to any means of
public definition, the
scattered membrane-window eclipse-blinking scissor
thirsts for

worms, but
they cannot easily become managed from the call of a dog whistle, they’ll
have to migrate upward out of the dirt into our extended buckets before we shall know
for sure anything of these bubble-wrapped adults, except

of their impatience and the decline to answer honestly to simple numerological questions,
where in heaven’s name/s do/does the sound of a tapestry represent its idea, huh

answer tooth-pick-salamander-door-knob, there
must

be more to these silences than meets the skin, but it’s
hard to know, when
finally they break their molds, catch
first glimpse of dawn reflected from their lids and then
pitch your question again, this

time they’ll answer

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