Cut The Grass
The wonderful workings of the world: wonderful, wonderful: I'm surprised half the time: ground up fine, I puff if a pebble stirs: I'm nervous: my moarality's intricate: if a squash blossom dies, I feel withered as a stained zucchini and blame my nature: and when grassblades flop to the little red-ant queens burring around trying to get aloft, I blame my not keeping the grass short, stubble firm: well, I learn a lot of useless stuff, meant to be ignored: like when the sun sinking in the west glares a plane invisible, I think how much revelation concealment necessitates: and then I think of the oecean, multiple to a blinding oneness and realize that only total expression expressed hiding: I'll have to say everything to take on the roundness and withdrawal of the deep dark: less than total is a bucketful of radiant toys.
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"The wonderful workings of the world: wonderful,..."
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