In the marginal trace of the paper,

I am empty and full, foul and emptied
of that feeling, that instinct, that taper
to spark a dream out of the yellow seed:
I hear the gambol of the watery
drops titter on golden strings of baseness,
making movements swing as Zen Archery
does to the sagittarian, baseless:
For ours is an unbottomless journey – 
for every fathom, there is a father
that re-begets himself forgetting he
only retouched the madrigal lather:
In the end, all meaning might be mended
only by the darkest truths upended.
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