14 January 2010

improv for drawn sources

The river never waits
Cutting, though many other
Names exist, rock and bone
Pollute the pure, Season's
Unwashed hands deign piety
Every stoic stroke wears away
Each push a fresh argument
One hesitates suggesting fire
But Frost, these things moving
A child pressed to crawl
Will crawl upon your turning
Through ears, the river never
Waits and morals never makes.

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