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July 10, 2004 - A poem about  Situations

At the Mouth of Regret

There is no oil in the milk
of this coincidence, for you.
Chaperoned by the purity
of chance to read this now.

Words connect like the errant
stars you count - one by one.
But do you see all the silver
threaded textile sewn of night?

This shy reclusive truth you seek,
a search for comfort of whole.
All but the dullest pebble found
on the solitary basalt shores of now.

There’s a crazy kid trying to skim
stones across the ocean towards
somewhere they once were.
Tell them to move on.


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