Lean and mean gestures we make
In the dark so that no one can see
The blush on our cheeks and God
On  lips of defeat and ambivalence.

The treetops come alive with birds
And the faint glow of a dying dusk
That is when we make our gestures
Complete with a pair of vacant eyes
Of  knowledge  not taking  in account
Our  ignorant past, a stuttering faith
 Faltering love ,a science of comfort.

Our senses cry like ignorant crickets
In raining dark  with many new frogs
Raising throats to night in orchestra.
Our faces are duly contorted with love
Like exaggerated gestures of dancers.
Our eyes turn up in repeated brows
But in the end they  sound as of  air
Like a breeze rustling in yellow leaves
Dealing with the dead past of the trees.


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