Aug 212011
 
I meditate between the cracks,
And, knowing nothing, proceed to weed,

To tidy into squares the things I need:
The things, if given, I'd not give back.

From my ivory dome upon the ivory hill
Jack must tumble and follow Jill

Until reality has touched them as they are:
Children still, but blessed with scars,

With maps that parse them into parts
Frankensteinian and sparse. 

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