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The Commotion

The littlest games the ego plays:

what a marvelous match.

And what but underbrush could burn

and burn away the burdens on your back?

There never has been an unintended clamor;

The commotion of the winds

will carry on in song and dance

and never touch the land —

Or maybe, in an Otherworld,

our gods are in a trance.

Our gods are building new canoes,

out of charcoal, and out of glass.

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The sun someday will be love again. The mountain someday will be sand. The land in the end will begin again, and flowers grow out of its hand. I remembered an ancient poem, held under the tongue of a

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