Sometimes I Own the Sky
Sometimes my space is small and all it takes
is the whisper of a thought to knock me down.
Sometimes I own the sky, my gesture wide engulfs
the furtherest gull to fly, beyond where thoughts may lie.
This town may be our place of resting purpose.
Where would I begin to think I am, if not for love.
And I continue to suppose and I propose again to test
the bending wheat of leisure. For I am not an oak
but made of manly measure, and my grain
is but a river of my dreams.
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