Already a day old
when it’s born so acute
if it looks to the left
without turning its head
it can flip through centuries.
Its poor ego always tidying-up
the leafy apartment of its purpose
a poem is a pet
even the caterpillar left
a scatter of small black seeds.
I’ve left a sandwich in the frig
and will see you in the morning
but love the conditions for peace
are harsh and interrogative
and won’t be voided.
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