-away from the sea these twenty
plus years,
this now is my driftwood:
the staying-put roots, legs
of them that's twisted in
the lowering level of the river
-fed pond. what's gone, beyond
it, blond. what's gone common
grey and water new enough to
such an oracle as these roots,
i wonder and want it to after
i've wondered, doesn't it
look up in an awe to the blackend
underneath, what's hid from me,
leaning my knees between
the pinch in the rail, confessing,
bless me?
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