I’m puzzled
by the weird confluence of deflating
factors in my so-called being something

Beloved like carpe diem flowers
on alabaster from aural ages
each strand of hair heard like two blank pages
in the crystalline winds of Church hours:

I was a docent of a language dead
babbled in the bubbling brook near towers
haughty, faulty, gaudy, godly showers
of verbal manna for our daily bread:

by the too usual to consume life.

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