I trespass here
On lawns of well-mown print
And seek sometimes a flower,
Sometimes a weed…
I too have tended mine.
It is a plot of always springtime
In the far-flung empire of the burrowed earth,
Where balding roots show in transverse
The destiny of branches yearning for the touch
Of other branches.
Which freedom shall I choose?
To move in glove-tight tunnels of my digging,
Or, in my tethered longing, drink the sky?
A neat sentence nails chapters;
Personae roam in my mind, I live.
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