I often think
It is
a
moving hand
an
Ant trudging
Up a creviced tree-
Along the bark
From root to tip
Of the most lighted leaves
an egg
Full of yellow yolk
Housed by fragile walls
Cracked easily
Goo running out-
Still held together as one, stretched
And sliding among
Its pieced house
a
Seagull
A lot lie its brother
Foe and friend
All wild in souring
Perhaps
Most of all
I often think
Rather is not
And can never be solidified
But instead
A gust brought only
By turning
Dusty, wrinkle papers
Bounded by string-
Laced in ink-
Joining may more
Remaining there
Yes, yes that is what it is
I often think
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