Gentle
If
we are no more than this, one small fold
of
sagging flesh – one breaking bone of mind
to
prop us up against the fall – one eye
that
puckers blind in noon’s false clarity –
How
can one more day reveal us, give space
to
what totters insensible inside?
Yes
strive, & fall, & strive again – decline
each
small disdain of life, & cry against
the
turning sun, though glib fools say it comes
often
enough, & enough for us all.
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