An absolution of indifference, perched top-heavy
atop the sunken confines of a styrofoam cup.
Speak or not, breathe or not, parry the words
on the page with keen discernment, or not.
*What do you use to carry the anvil of
choice, and its furthering implications?
The flimsy whim fabric of choosing, woven.
The wind that moves breathlessly
through fall fields full of dusk and miracle
light. Sawdust leaves that collapse, cranky,
red-faced, nap blanket, dreaming in prose.
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