Wronged

Here are its dire leaves and here is its house
that rattles some golds, that somehow occurs
despite their tootings, their Sunday flights of fancy,
bursting from floods of clouds or places in rhododendrons
where their kids dug to explore their wild hungers.
To think it is a wheel, and its rays are weddings
of the soul, stars and the pearly bronze of dawn,
is there even a chance that pines will know?
Here are its leaves and here is a house
survived its own myths, a bluejay suddenly
occurring, to occur, as they occur, having occurred.
So bluish bathhouse, grenadine clouds, a fluent island
with fire eye. It rattles its gold. Someone lives there,
but cannot really imagine it is so.

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