Sunday, October 24, 2010

Your home.

Give up a morning and root
For the seeds you've sewn.

Skewered by pillared shadows
And limited in the means of
being found

Those physical doses will doubtless have been
Strewn about you.

Fortune is a meticulous thing
You learn with stubbornly stubbed fingers.

Some of those mottled pockets in the ground
Are yours, with
Fresh shoots,
With your neglected likeness.

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