Aug 212011
 
It's hard to say just what one feels
Following sunlight that exits the field.

What one feels. . . is what. . . one says,
So notes propose composed in haze.

It is too much-- my page is damp:
Wrappers splayed at a tarnished curb.

There's no order to tonight's white stars
Or to dawn's harassing tassels come up so far.

A rhyme is a rhyme, is just what comes
Going round and around as one does.

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