Hews to humidity
And my belly du jour.
But just look as the earth and air
Urge on the trees' reaching
And the waters' lenticular slipping lives
And ply these forms ever repeating
Like for like
As if something were being rehearsed.
This place is confecting minds in the end.
It's a place that does that.
No reason given, none ventured
But I am beginning to wonder, say,
About whether I
Am not the final Santa obsolescing
And oh how much wiser to slip free
And converge to the fold of whatever
Ever has in mind.
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