A mercy and a miracle are one
And the same. Low sun over the shoulder,Illuminating incapacity,
Lets a body know both necessary.
In a short story it's harder to say
Why "to provide" has to rhyme with "to hide,"
While characters and plots detail wry clues.
What will have become of us by the time
Our tale appears to wag our dogged lives?
Spring will festoon the Northern Hemisphere.
Taxes will be coming due in the States.
Heat will be blossoming in the desert.
But what will have become of us, writing
Our way out and about the Town of Dust?
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