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Vincent Green

White Blossoms


Looking through the window,

I see a tree with white blossoms

Trembling in the wind,

and my hands will start to tremble too

When it and I are manic,

Like a wind chime made of bones and teeth––

This is the imagined music of mortality.

Not that of birds

But of bones that become like theirs,

Completely hollow,

Sails turned toward the wind.

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