Saturday, January 21, 2012

Arches in Thick Winter Sunshine

Everything has made itself new.
There's nothing you need to remake.

The sand at your feet is as new
As the sandstone cliffs that shed it.

The teeming cultures in your brain
Are new as foragers' ochre.

You will never make a copy,
No matter how exact your map,

That is not itself a new thing,
No matter how derivative,

How slavishly contrived. There is
Nothing not new under the sun.

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