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I will this bleakness sorrow's brow to fold,
I cannot carry numbers forth this day
Or any other
or too sumit more than this remorseful word: Almost,
A term that sums the sun’s decay, the stars in disarray;
No more to me, they say, than syntax is rendered mute
Under this cover of the night.
The source of all this finery, this canopy display, such
Reverberations flow, such confusion in the know, we
Bite our lips and stare at stones that float above our heads;
We clench our throats and dodge a bullet to find comfort
In a can of milk, a woman’s smile,
We dart the planes of circumstance, we walk a crooked mile,
In wonder of the doing,
In all, our nature’s ruined – by mocking every best intention.
All our aching, all our sounds to fill the void.
I shout: Almost!
It echoes far from skies above,
In hope and bail fulls above;
I sense it in the air,
Thick it falls from mourning,
Love—grasp all you seek and share it –
It is almost everywhere.