And I said to myself,
write something, canonize
anything: the rhythmic
swing of children
on rope-twined stars
hung low from the tip of
the moon; how they swish
to and fro in cadence
with lilts of cricket
chirps, monotonous
drones of cicadae, conducting
songs past the night-sky’s
vacuous bucket. Or how
the web-paned tips of treetops
drip a dewed farewell to Halley’s
vanishing vapor.
Write something, canonize
anything, I said to myself.
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