116

We must now repair to those currents passed

by our streaming drift through the middle-core
of ourself. I am less of a pilgrim
and more a man – We are peasants no more!
I work for the world; we toil side-by-side;
You are inside my rhythms like a beat
that never bears repeating – it just slides
through time, gliding on the skates of these feet:
I'm allergic to the winds that rustle 
through the cornfields, but we keep on husking,
just as twisted minds will always tussle
with the straight ones, though their era's dusking:
Look into the stars, look left at the sea;
They bid that we trade our "I" for their "we".
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