Count the many trees to the
rocket launch. They've been
planted all in a row. This
garden outlet place looks like
a launch site; and whenever I go
somewhere new, I never want to
return home. My open hands grasp
this wheel now clenched.
What form shapes take, they must
have before they take it? Or is this
entire life all so accidental as that?
Windblown cultures just ending
up where they may?