Yet haste, haste on
Where do you all go to, small miseries? Fleeing
like tumbling lemmings spurred by anthrax.
Holding space for more
small miseries
more brief reprieve long
recovery,
more conversations with the landscape:
Oh night sky, can't you hear my tree fall?
Where am I going when I follow
the tunnel of time?
the curling gale,
the brackish wind,
the thickest socks,
the dreams of fog,
all underwater
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