through these pages i have thumbed
(see my history of paper cuts)
to look for flowers in vases
but all i've found are crumbs
of feasting kings or sluts
and questions in reluctant spaces
i hawk by day and owl by night
i tread the bare bark of trees
to hold the limits where
i hang upon the breeze
and nail my solemn purpose there:
find the words or lose my sight
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