To what do I owe
This offering.
The current seems
Low and constant.
Disoriented little sonnets
That squiggle and run.
Now here
Now fleeing
But never far bound.

While patterns
And every day
From nights
Come so well manifested
And on time
One wonders,
What is this glitch
In the sequence you so
Reverently mastered.

Tensions rise.
But when the dancing peacock
Curls and twists
Let the intensity rise.
So you can die

And then be born again.


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