caged to the mechanical
newton may have articulated gravity
with motion in a three-way
without mention of intention
save the pre-ordained
the preternatural
the premonitional skins
night wears
whispering dares
to wake up the cold before
all that snares me
knows I've wobbled back
an apple black see
seeds at once
are just my long fingers
my thoughts that have run since
I always wait on the loam
and work whatever pays for
poems madly poured home
lorded, horded as some
like I might squeeze
what grows fallen
swollen inside me
tall quiet vines climb
unseen waiting
faster spinning clay
waiting to rust and decay
waiting on moleules and their bind
one moment fermented tined
to the next
mouths rest
bless metals before
giving up the eyes
to inherit what the the wind
salts against any reeded cradle
finding the beauty ladled
from where water
has already been
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