Poet Tree
Friday, January 14, 2022
After a Nap
The evening smells like a lit match.
The moon glows behind smoke.
That's the way it must be these days.
Every move the mind makes is binary:
Yes or no, love or fear. The earth
Will yield to this, like any lover
To the moistening of soil. The choice
— Beyond all that is — the choice.
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