Content to be stage scenery
as any modern tree
in winter’s icy roots
with all the other personal pronouns
whose bodies belong to the world
time swaying back and forth
until it worries itself loose
is spring that looseness
by which I arrest the thoughts
running toward me
some family resemblance
so as not to be overwhelmed
seeing that sensitive and blank
it still bears the scratches of some sun
gone on to other worlds.
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