The Nacreous Oughts

23 February 2012

the sands i glean for gold
& pass from me to stay
become unreal, array
of star-shards in the blank cold
where wander seekers gray

with what they've yet to glean
& now i gather up
wrappers & broken cup
twigs or a rind with mold
& just as much they mean

in the carnival of seekers
in the sparkle-threaded cold


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