Just as Prester John, on the fringes of 

memory and legend, I inhabit
those same mental gardens of hate and love,
trapped in dream and unable to nab it:
Crescendo, damn it – crescendo of light –
I'm not scared of true movement, only truth
which reveals that I flounder, heart alight
with the vision appeased from this flesh booth:
It's okay, it's alright – I am waxing
to one day wane into the dirt I touch
as I'm potting this palm, nails re-lapsing
in the know-how of earth, learning so much:
Columbus and Christ both sought these gardens,
and changed space to plant meanings upon them.
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