Thursday, August 21, 2014

Sink It

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:

and sink it.


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