I can't go on, I'll go on.
sitting on the rubbish heap,
pouring out the dregs of
tea so that they puddle
at your feet, the sun
reflected in the murkiness of brown
liquid muted, so
you can stare at it
without fear of injury--
generator of all good things--
the flowers borne out of the
heap of pig manure, stinking to
high heaven,
wiping it from your shoes
as you go on
and on and on
eternal
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