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8.

A Room Diverts the Winter
 

The snow is a lapse
in the unconscious color.

I dream of its leeway
as returnable seasons
are covered with tiny ranches
in minds reproduced by the planet.

A love in the daze of angles
Tomorrow might not be born
When the bus unleashes its silver people
and the moment fuses its light to tears.

The seasons color
this life of directionless lapses
The snow disengages the jobs
The ranches reproduce a bus
above the tears
As love is born
of sheer nerve.