languish there's a willful poem
pine once written
droop cast up from some growth
flag cracking the dry soil despite
wilt itself it is no organic spice
fade emerging jointed death
wither crows from source
diminish rolling like the shadow beside
dry up a pitted pinless hand grenade
retrograde and it's no wonderful loud thing
languish the poem whittles
pine into grain which it's dull-eyed author cannot
droop a declarative statement breaches the water
flag at the top of its arc flattens out — pin-straight
wilt a moment and just a moment a clearing
fade of the mind — wipes white the wash
wither horizon weak and sight from where
diminish every illness wills its end
dry up though many good things never began
retrograde under gaze of mind's accomplished rend.
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