Sometimes
Sometimes
There is too much silence
To write
Or too many motes
Frolicking in a grin of light
But at others, the urn
Of senses overflows
(who knows? who knows?)
But here the slick street stretches
Like a wet flame
Tasting what will be, has been
But illumines not
beginning or end
only what this pity, sweet pity
of my all little ever has been now?
transitory
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