Out here in the unfeeling world On a January morning I came to see myself as dead— I was in the cemetery, After all, and not quite yet awake. When all you can give is what's called for, Lines can't help but to get blurry Between production and extraction— The slow draining out of life Toward nothing in particular. A fallen branch, rotten inside, Learns to bloom, bursting the seams Of its given boundaries— Bark flaking, splitting to make way For a warm orange fungal glow. Life is like that, waiting, fading, Until the hour comes to be glorified. It's the most serious business— Bringing forth anything at all For the mere joy of having it be.
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