nothing is made for eyes

it seems trees are aimless        clouds

wintry indifferent soldiers

looking for a jesus they have only heard of

air is closemouthed        a stationary indication of on and on

ants hide red armies while leaves fuss into heaps

small flustered puzzle pieces that are lost now within themselves

chasing chasing        searching for what

heat holds still

cold callous sun dulled by this unreasonable world

and yet and yet

here i am        defective but catching

what i need to carry

less or more

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