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                                     the sunken garden
                           the earthy smell
                of evening dirt on my hands
                           damp in my knees
                           out from the Old House
                where voices chattered laughed
                around the bulb-light comfy
                but meaning nothing I like the comfy
                           but not the nothing

                           but I notice the buttress of the wall dark mossy
                the foot of a viaduct three hundred feet tall
                           the arch broken reaching
                but crumbling and still
                           a crane on its outreach yellow gleaming slightly
                                     in the clear crepuscule





childhood & green wormhole: green wine
crane wormhole: Charlotte’s / warm / hand
evening wormhole: 1968
garden wormhole: leaf
voices wormhole: bargain
windows wormhole: quietly
yellow wormhole: the silent night / of the Batman