The brook, older
than manuscripts, tells
the news:
the hills, out in the
rain,
antedate altars:
when the painter turns
from “absolute”
paint, it begins to
crack: weeds and
bushes
where cities stood
put the rubble
down: we
separate
our things from
things, but only
changing with change
stays beyond things
and us, mocks change’s
mocking changes.
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