Say
do only you and the question get the stakes?
Who are we, prideful on crest of ground,
Mirthful in midst of our cruel game,
Ingenuous even to making sounds?
What is our need, the thing that money can’t buy,
A roof of word and rhythm,
The food that feeds our dreams?
How much do we need, more than
We thought, less than we think,
Something different from what we’re told?
Why do we stay? The ocean of
Morning light, the mute intransigence
Of flesh, arrangements we never imagined,
Catechisms experience opens anew?
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