In a country of surpluses

The incapacity of rock
is bathed slowly in effects
Children are blue
in the dark of their diverse controls

The end executes itself
in the press of these things
the excess of assemblies

the carrier of mornings
in its brightness, remains calm
and more aged than probably you’d guess

These clouds look like others?
A telephone supports somebody
while on the diverse concrete
one does not connect


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