Our stories break out the same as ever,
Epics spoke in dark cave wall frescoes,
Their language is a nobody’s language
But everybody’s in its tone and future,
A tasselled poetry’s last minute thing.

This very minute leaves us befuddled
When a little dark Krishna bewitches
From whichever side we meet his eyes
He is perfectly rounded, hunched up,
Confusing why he will steal butter up.

Actually who wants to steal butter up.
It is his mouth open with clods of mud
And the stars above our walking heads
But mother is angry in an open mouth
And we are in a state and bewildered.


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