None that you'd notice
I saw that white green grass
On the sunlit Sunday evening
The bark of dog, and song of bird
Muffled words overheard
I have watched that leaf
Throughout the season
Only with reason and mastery unplanned
Do I misunderstand the photographs
The bric-a-brac on white windowsills
Chilled still wine with plain Roman blinds
See the signs of middle class
The traps of middle-aged nostalgia
We are now acquiring vases
At quite a rate of knots
Inkblots are found to be fake psychology
Or so it seems, as some mean spirited
Writer tries to crush my dreams
With few marks left
Least none that you'd notice
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