In the way that the
first, heavy drops of rain fall on a still bright windowpane,
Cracks in
the floor, under the rug, where a connection with the process of entropy
is
covered from view-
Craft,
art, consumption, and the posy imaginings of blind, blue-gray rage,
Much of
what is communicated is attention misplaced
between
God and Man.
As rocks stretch from the ground to brush the heavens,
others imitate the process in reverse;
And who’s to decide which is the more spectacular or meaningful?
Our deep,
rich loam, in a bowl
resting on
a plate
on the flashing,
slicing edge of this universe.
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