it is a mark of
our poverty
that we flee the act of
placing words on this here this earthly emanating goldly skyward
fearing too many tropes have stuck on it
glue-like
how many layers
since that earliest sin-filled garden tale
by now it is the world’s thickest palimpsest
so what should we do this autumn morning
chill licking our fingers ears
and camera shutter barely clicking
as we see
its sharp intensity
bending our sense
of what today
is new
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