Watering the garden early, traffic on Route Nine picking up and drowning out the river. You contain crows or rather, patterns by which crows are brought forth. Apparently there is a world! I question the validity of war, both as a practice and a metaphor, but don't have any immediate solutions. Reading out back by the pear tree in which chickadees nest. Crucifiers gotta crucify. Yet what is happiness. So long as there are bad men then what? What is drifting across the highway? Swallows land in the garden five feet away from me and my heart stops and another heart - a heart I did not know was mine - lifts and carries me past the ten thousand universes into the Great Furnace of Love. I have feared losing a lot in this life and it has made certain relationships complex. Beer for the horses indeed. My brother, my killer, my sister, my angel. Go to bed and it's just a pile of manure slowly composting, wake up to a beautiful mushroom sprouting. I can't tell because I don't know which one of us is happier but I hope you. The poem is a bottle, the scrap of message is help.
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