Are You There I Keep Asking (Myself)

One more hour I begged myself or God, 
free me the elfin fear of a miller rising 
too near the bulb. To lay down a pillar 
and call it a road the only path away from
Rehearsing art on plain pages with cheap pens
most anyone could afford. We live for what we can 
prove has already occurred, that permission of 
furred thread against the light we take in 
alone. Is there a hand I can grasp to find 
my setting at once unsettling? Please let's not 
mention the moon apart from its status 
as reflected gem. Why do you say orchid 
when you really mean an orchard flush with 
unpicked fruit we tell ourselves will offer us more time more love?









 

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