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Saturday, August 18, 2012

With Nothing to Say

By a flutter of wing on a scale minute in a minute world
the mosquito hitches a ride on a raindrop then hops
to another; this is how she keeps from being squished
in a squall. And you, you stand within the garden in the yard
grossly taking in through every sense the fullness of it all,
naming nothing, perceiving no particular, no shade, no color,
no scent, not even the feel of the air as it vibrates the nerves
deeply beneath the surface of your skin.  

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