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I. The traveler pauses not to leave his print yet the poet lingers to surrender breath to sentence he, sitting on seashell-studded brown-gray porous lava boulder freed from volcanic lip-- uttered and hardened and molded and ever-molding. now masquerading in phase of end point for ocean's stretching.... the ripples, the ripples, the ripples fluid wheels without axles, eternity of middle points, concentric undulations of ovulation water to land? to seed? to spirit to psyche? to me, and to you?
See the branch is floating see the rock through water's grin, anchored firm me, pulled to anchor to the breezes me, spitting out frustrations oh, the meaninglessness of taken-for-grantedness? the superstitious devaluation of secular clarity? trapped in inferiority complex basilicum, reverberating in "no's" building block to building block to building block....
Why do i then knock upon the only door without a lock? is it a yearning to flee, or to be me? and aware of hypocrisy of tattooed punctuality south italian sunny shoreline on easter morning, another holiday saviour trying to find in moment of silence a voice of harmony i know even in its changing.
I have followed the voice without its asking: has any artist ever dared to paint possibility i wonder as i sit by sea thinking of a bright simile to slip into a shadow of me.
II.
Concentration shattered the poet dead the man remains to pilot frosty sleigh upon moment's melting glacier to roads diverged oh, literary irony? i melt into mediterranean aqua-marine breezes i have no promises to keep, i gave them up for being free, for anarchy of me, of me and you, and they and we and everyoneeverythingeveryreason. i cast my vision like a lure into the ocean fishing for water and really nothing more.
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