a perfect orb is held by accident
the lip of cup, the curve of base, the lint

a maker measures leaves but never takes
the horizon, the fertile mountain-slope

a home in hand is seasoning for leaves
the dance, the steeping scene, the taste of rest

as takers, we fish out the wayward ant
to see if it can walk; it often does

the wanderer needs shelter from the rain
the angry, aching poverty of time

i give the moon, i take the moon, she says
who is the moon; composting circumspect

the softest earthquake breaks a mirror still
what tender for the heart of liquid sky

//

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