It

Its hands will be alive even after death
These are translucencies not beasts of burden
Its own star is trying to come to it
The hands may have had a nest
When they were alive, I mean
The hands braid weeds in the pond
Down under the surface the morning
Under the reflection the star
Down under the lilac, plane of morning
These sable hairs and pigment
They want to die a little sometimes
To lie under long, abstruse purple
As the painters of the afternoon
When they are asleep
As tea spoons, as sills
Covered in thick white dust
of the done, of what they have not done

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