what is the chance that
landed clunked and splitting,
a fruit with follicles, a
dead on language. feet of
colts beat across the back
of a brave and absurd walker
overwalking to the point of
dance confusion. and then
there comes the emmer-wheat
down from the mountains,
here i point to the reliction inside me,
the additional shore in my drying heart
as all feeling goes receding.
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