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The letters gullied a basin of trees
	and took their turns on loose sheets,

yet turn-taking tattles lengthier
        than buried, crowded complaints

objected. Injustices soapboxed on 
        codes new known, watering moss

and hairline bark on their backs,
        keying in speculative lines terminally,

platforming growth centuries old toward 
        zippy light inside a framed by frame

glass wall, by now a classic, wept
	at the dopamine grief of likelier tattlers

at root. Whispers aloud. Whippoorwill
	brutish the instant, but piling earthly scree

certainly stooges the picture, so 
        everybody’s open letters are for everyone

and for no one to ever really read.