wet grass slips under my feet
but they are touching air
are electric pylons dead martians
do i care
sometimes it seems my brain
wants to explode with all it understands,
the intense sympathy of knowing
all and in between lard and lance
spring to, sweep at, drag under, stuff and stuff
what is left, what is undone or done
years it will take and yet everyday
there's one more raisin in my bun
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