Tuesday, November 24, 2015

7491. SCRAPING THIS GROUND WITH A SHOVEL

SCRAPING THIS 
GROUND WITH A SHOVEL
The journey is harrowing, dreary. Anything
up high soon soon disappears; all that is on 
the ground remains. The heavy things gain 
their footing, the light things disappear.
I'm weary enough to cancel myself;
erase this foul ticket, omit the 
presence of me.

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