an exhaustion deeper than sleep
unwise in its course of stagnation
still as the bottom of a stale green sea
sacred in its permission;
to stay where you are
swaying your limbs with the wind
as the boughs of a great dead tree
spring arrives in fits and starts
and the fruit you bear is covetless
violets push through the tall grasses
bruising the fields, again, it confesses
once more in this nothingness
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