I am not a silent poet

the fork bends the river
in your soul,
makes rocks roll
in wrecked weather
to your goal
and breached,
or landed
in tombs
and boxed living rooms.

how you eat
with it
and dead meat
with it-
tells others who you are
like your clothes, house and car
when those posessions
become obsessions.

you can use it
like a broomstick
in your grasp
to rake out the past,
then sow in slower
seeds to see you over
each short infinity
of ruled trinity
if scientific trespass
lets you last.

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