The Smallest Pond

The fledging land lines of uniformity strike again amongst
a complex anatomy of fans & belts & restitutive awnings,
whose sole purpose is borrowed & flanked so that the sky
can pitch rain like falling nickels, all the while disregarding
forewarned expectation & meeting in this circular place
where what is forced is either straightened or shakes.
It is the wind that helps, not the getting closer & in the manner
of the under-earth after light is recovered from darkness this surface
approaches unsuggestively & in unknown conflict. Reflection
is limited to the attention one gives, éclat with modified increments—
a face over looking itself, over looking the road; a fleeting semblance
altering what is brave & posturing androgynous totems; sanctity
worthy of worship or dismay & now with the sun setting
makes the reluctance to peer beyond the rim even easier.

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