Monday, September 22, 2003

right in split, in delve, in
the damn
you and I grew, and we
weren't even trying.
in lengthy
pond or prattle, lacking
smear or
the drastic day, look up
child and find,
or move deigning
drink upon
momentous ocular
hopeful. it's a
rage called
poetry, brought to the
lights by
concern on this
planet. what does it
matter, bug? in
vale, then,
dirt or sky, a field
day fortitude of
rising here
while alien
concerns purpose
walk. right here in
this planetary
left to us, the closed
as much as the open.

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