crescent tides

every single word
popping up
in our little head—
it’s art, if you’ve got a heart
beat working for you,
but whatchu know ’bout finesse—

tis a trivial thing,
whence you contemplate it;
a pulse begets the bough
as does the crest pull the trough,
“and all are in orbit swimming”;
the sun only rises and sets in the mind.

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