Come hither, tin of pain

Distant grab of light sun, trickle
Fancy drop of lint, come hither!

Come hither, silt born of rum, calf
Of retribution, some sad tin rubble.

Come hither, far corners of light,
Dependencies of near, shoals of boon.

And when you sit past the club of noon,
And when you silt allowances that rust,

Feel the luck of treble, bass of kin,
Mix of barn-stacks combing hay of numb.

And when you sit past the bowl of soon,
And when you silt accruals of gash/rub,

Feel the suck of nibble, tin of pain,
Mix of river-beds numbing sand of sink.

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