December - Poem by Tony Towle
Here are the wheels of the new kingdom and here,
here are the radical tires. You believe me of course, a plant,
a cup, who have demonstrated affectionate indifference,
the blundering forest charm plunked you into, number 32.
We end thoughtfully, with three dots . . .
in contrast to the inertness of the ball.
In the discussion above I spoke of the inertness of the ball.
The numbers get higher, in sequence. A sequence
is a godsend, another cloud in the Alps and the air.
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