woods and the trees
i don't know half as much
as i think, i do, i won't
go down that path
i am wildly gifted. in summer bursts
in winter shocking life
stocking again
all my likes are long dead, head
in books, grave faced,
dog-eared, spines bent
not to know everything then
to admit nothing is
unthinkable when
from scratch one itch each
from time one sec one minute wan
our
trace these whips and cracks
of light baubles, larks skip warble,
passing men
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