WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE
who tip the scales
of one another
towards harmony
coax a full flour moon
on the butcher block
in patient steady
swirls
who stop to notice
each other’s tiny rages
in soothing time
knowing no small passion
deserves the total
flood
where do these people
live, what bungalows
what lofts, what
wine caves
how wild are
their gardens
do they play the game
where you find your
stripper name
from the street where you
were born
how were they raised,
under which doctrines
what paperbacks did their
English teachers give them
after class
what perfect wisdom
do they recall
in the heat of the morning
when everything begs
in terrorizing volume
who made
that wisdom
that wisdom
up
So good, so much flow, “no small passion deserves the total flood,” “how wild are their gardens,” I love it
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