Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Matunality

Sorrow is, in itself,
The completist virtue.

We don't live by what we breathe
In, mornings when predawn sun

Announces this penumbra. I
Was only whatever passed me

By. By the way, the evening
Sinks into Kohan Gardens

Like the thought of a dance
In the legs that won't walk.

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