There are no intermediaries in the chasms
stretching forward
from the beginning to the end.
The rarity of timeless mediocrity delves
to youth
and being
and the deathless.

For days and days the woman sat and sat,
responding to little more than her own decay.
There was no sound within the meanderings
of partially covered oversouls
before Emerson danced with the trees
and complications of an iron string,
endlessly repeated,
beat forth into the wind.

Why don’t you have her by your side?
Why don’t you have meaning or solitude
beyond what you can remember.
Or destroy.
You are the beauty
of the last falling leaf
that made it through winter,
falling only when another began to grow.



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