First thing you try
to write it all down or
hold something up
you have only half
a glass empty of time
to use tragically wisely
before beauty streams in again
with its posse of wintry
presuppositions like
a nail slipping through
a hand or buds built up
by a hidden universe
just the sheer volume
of stuff pushed through
that’s sun-driven green
and kneeling at your feet
the servant god
his fallen flower.
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