Slacks
They bloom like soft drops,
fat green leaves easy to take,
the part of a chop
of a meadows crop,
by the crystal lonely lake.
The silent tempest
in a teacup, it will graze
a lazy necklace,
as are the lettuce
and large tomatoes ablaze.
They hunger like flames,
and go through the mill sleeping,
trying, they exclaim,
yet nothing to claim
in autumn; vessels bleeding.
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