Is everything
we do foregone?
Can we
instigate the dawn
of something
new? It doesn’t
matter,
really, probably: we’ll
do the things
we do; waffle
‘round the
way we’re waffling
‘round right
now -- and let
the quiet wow
of slow-diffusing
hues imbue us:
till we notice
we are
colorful. We’re the mother
full of milk;
we’re the renegades
who drink it.
If we want to think
a thing, more
than likely we will
think it.
Meanwhile, fill the tub
and take this
poem there:
.
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