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Lime Tree

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A lemon bird in a lime tree
Cracks its beak to serenade the twilight.
Its honey notes bump against
The waning glowering moon
And the sharp tempered crescent
Decapitates the butter mellow beauty.
A golden aria turns to a guttural cry;
Crimson coats and coagulates its still pulsing talons
To the gnarled perch.
Silence the moon whispers
Now is not a time for singing.
The wind stirs,
The damp feathered body tips and thuds
With resounding muteness
To the citrus roots and bleeds out upon the earth.
Morning comes,
But still no one is singing.





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