Evening, Mate. (Poem)

Sober
and not straight
under the Mulberry tree
I
was tuned to
the tangible
temperaments.

Then
came along
a noble-minded
squirrel near
the silky legs.

But the stately
character of
the Saturday apples
called for a cold embrace.

The Southern winds,
Northern clouds,
and
the nude thunder lights
warned me
of the half-lit skies
and half scared nights.

The brown earth
and the
brandy hearts
playing to the iTunes
gave a perfect death
to the humbling day.

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