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I’ll write You briefly.


You who are burdened

setting skyward crescents

and pelting the mountains

with violent white winds.   


Barking songs of the snapping pine is

orchestrated by Your magnificent machinery;

and measured out by Your apparatus

and nestled into eternity.


Suffering a measured murder formation.  

In a habitat of:  
found apples and idle, noiseless bees.


You have turned me over.

Your noctilucent eyes  

glow in the darkness of night  

and drill me.


My viscous marrow spills


beyond the city’s concrete carapace.

Below all the earth that slightly slithers

with primitive life in the


magical darkness of the substratum.  

 To the sunless prehistoric parts.  

My troglodytic, somber soul calls to You.

                  --Published in Samsara



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