you do that,
while I sit here
and dream a sincere questionable loss
to acknowledge what's edging a glacier
from its natural habitat.
My solid ice melts
with your sun of understanding,
quieting a once powerful, furious force,
stumping the branches of a blossoming bush,
leaving a king without a horse,
wondering what they have
that lags you behind.
Watching them rush forward.
Can't collect on a pan too shallow.
Try to drop in some sense,
they turn to marshmallows,
and puff out the depository until it suffocates.
It's campfires and woodland words to express a man's dumb, honest struggle
to give up himself knowledgeably in something he finds True.
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