Saturday, April 02, 2011


It’s too much to know —
how a delicate petal
dances in the crowd rose,
the familiar of wind and rain,
the consort of sun —
it’s too much to listen to
each conversation with
black loam and aphid —
it’s too much to document
the internecine frost’s
first September foray across —
it’s too much to accept
the loss, the loss on the road
traveled from Russian Slovakia.

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