by James Croal Jackson
No, the ground
is not sinking.
And yes,
I believe
in us,
though
we may
tear apart
in two
directions.
I desire pines,
and you want
the unknown,
heading up, and up.
Our hands have
been tied
together.
Years now.
And you say
you see the clearing,
but I am losing
myself
in the trees.
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