Translucent crevice fixed clear
Across this epoch resting in
Ashen wrinkles of deprecation
Hung so hauntingly loose around
Bones of something more.
A white tree grows in Brooklyn,
Yet no one can determine a species
As they walk past in recognition
Of a quibble laid as keystone,
Supporting blind mothers,
False treaties and vomit
Disguised as what might be
Possible in the frosty
Reflections chiseled in
Corneas of skewed reverence.
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