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John Muro

Go, then, and gather

up your promises

as plentiful as queleas

rising near dusk or

the air-borne shoal

of pollen so dense

you could be looking

down upon the surface

of wind-wrinkled water.

Go in the dew-dripping

grass with your head

bowed in contrition

like a fiddlehead fern,

lanky arms dragging

an over-worn pouch,

bare feet shuffling

thru a dust you cannot

shake, and tell me

what it is you come

away with beyond

strands of spider silk,

naked needs and

a wayward whistle.

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