sprout

to speak of opening to life,
treetops speed by
like ambiguous pricks of green.

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i think up silver tracers
needling through the blocks and parks
like a maze in children activity books.
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i try to remember myself
or at least find
a link to the Source via consciousness.
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i would like to plow through
the soil of Real,
with the scent of rosemary
and touch the genius to everything.
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i'd love for Blanca and I
to touch palms
after the cemeteries have been exploded
to take the shape of a geranium bowing.