Friday, July 1, 2016

8355. MUST DO

In the space of a nautical mile, my
chilled face has turned warm, and
I can smile : the linear things before
me now stretch like trees. Must do, 
must do, and more. The upward lilt
of the song of the lark keeps me
set and going. I am here the agent
of something; I know not what.
Must do, must do, and more.

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