The rock pool
Where the rocks
First Breathed.
The eye is convergent,
That of the octopus never shedding
A salt tear
While all eyes else
Turn on Tragedy.
Life is a mystery,
But not in that holy way
Pilgrims take bread as flesh.
What makes the bread rise,
What sparks the heart beat,
Why is photosynthesis hope
Even in the Mojave?
Even lovers revert to stoicism,
Their hearts breaking into Rotten Metals
Feeding the earthworm
Giving the tree something
To make of the Sun.


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