A poem, if written,
is a way in,
a way out,
a way to entangle,
a way to get suddenly unentangled,
a path through the tall grass,
a breeze through the trees,
a dryness in the swamp,
a certainty that winks and flares,
a rush that speeds and flows
and settles in
and winds its way forward
and meanders back
and on
and on
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