Close to nothingness, hovering: of nothing formed kin. Th’receiving earth nothing no longer but counterpart to king, close one mold to other. Each on each forces work: flesh lives in motion, in response remains divine. If one lacks salt tears to stay clay, it can only harden & fall to dust. Not a sparrow, though, not a fragment. She who hunts a coin will sweep house, for all people, & we return.
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