The Biggest Start So Far

Morning does not decide neither
does the hand on fire arranging
wide and narrow strips seeming
to travel

suspenseful light outside and
bringing it in connection is lost
between seen lines and fried
interpretations

hanging from ceilings songs
almost like lamps full of rice
cooking slowly under pressure
until plump

I woke from a death dream
giving me the date and breath
of personal finality irresistably
sucked out

what is there to do but remain
piloted and slowly burning over
a string of small towns in motion
between cities

all of us alone would like to think
god is our itch and above evolution
is that tickling inkling of quiet
in rampage

but really have any of you ever
laid and hatched your own egg
or sang a note never sung before
breakfast?

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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