Last night made the fields heavy,
rolling vapor into water-beads
on the ghosted grass, a condensation
of spectres. Nothing deadly.
It came with the dark’s slow slaughter;
now everything denser than itself with data,
burdened by over-knowing,
all the useless clarity and angles in water…
Ah, with words grow the weary;
transcendence, never more a burden
than now – and the postmodern search
for emptiness finds its next vessel for theory.
As the weight is brought down into dew,
the drinking is deepless for the waking;
all sip the shallow cups of the morning
and
lap a thousand plateaus to make do.
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