Tuesday, January 21, 2020

The Lost Reader

Small words fallen in the dirt,
Neither agile nor inert,
Only little, dull to touch,
Wayside gravel, nothing much—

If your thoughts can rearrange
Scattered matter, find it strange,
Feel gravity fusing stars
In a word as weak as “far,”

It’s you who’s genius, not muse—
Life, not language—fire, not fuse—
Soul, not angel—ghost, not poem.
You will never make it home.

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