how odd that we grow

up and down at the same time

when the wind airs spacious

those green spaces of nothing;

light — like a featherweight letterpress

inserts its needless nervous burn.

effusive through tendrils of life

and the places around it —

all the same paths, neural, organic

as webs are apophatic, beautiful.

oh, yes, the dirt in us is piling

and there’s no intention

but to weave deeper and find

the creeping things that

wind around our roots and feed us

and run an electric course

to blossoms at our fingertips.

how odd that we grow

out and in from the same place

that both in the round open

and hope to embrace a long line of

sojourners: they embark and branch

away and leave their roots exactly

where they ought to stay.

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for nicolle

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