Private heart quiet room trooped
from another world, a corridor, you see
the wailing pipes wood resin aerosol tremor.
Far off though now to tiptoe, trill, at last
an empty building summer’s distance
distinctly promise, boughs I sat to leave
young broken frame, his roots upturned,
delight and pulped to bruises
little cuts along the ribs,
with two whips, then another, little
punished face crowding quiet private heart
room trooped to his bed, to wake him dead.
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