Sic transit

young sycamore turns on its side
before the storm, then light

cars on the curve, sweet scent
of canted highway, wet
dust and grass, hint
of ozone,

coming to birth within the radical of what is
plethora, I thought last night
falling asleep, the rain so
insistent and the cars in their ratios

of innocence, measure moving as
well, round the curve, trying
to get elsewhere, not otherwise, as
for the stench of existence,

yet deep breathing of all the senses sustains me in
the belief, rising, that the world is born in and through
us, each
an umbilicus, tender
conduit for
as fluid tissue within which sustenance
we feed its fetal
that we

might find the world elsewhere or otherwise
I sit and listen,

. . . wasp slapping
pheromones on cypress post, hieroglyph
of deepening code,
mechanics of spring brought to summer's
vast engine


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