Leaves Of Mind
Th’river’s crossed.
Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.
Take the ink from the (FlexGrip) pen; articulate the uncontrollable.
Am I ever writing this? You were always reading this. The stars knew they were burning…
A diff’ring
(to the usual) time of day,
adorned with diff’rance.