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spitting dusk ( ksud gnittips )
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the thicket bristles in the wood as ghosts are gloaming in the leas a muffle in the scheme of things as breezes hum & ruffle trees the grasses whisper in chinese & chatter through the afternoon until the fly that hovers spies a sunken sun, a rising moon & sitting in a sodden ditch within the still - a poet harks the tooting sounds, a screeching copse & hoots abound - the owls are larks so scribble i with squinting eyes i'm spitting dusk in dimming light i'm scrawling on as supper calls i wave the day & kiss the night ...