Not Norman Schaefer,
Washington poet
and high school roommate—
but the measure
of acceptable,
of the average
pebble worn
in the streambed
without a name,
ideals and dreams
tossed in the current
wash of friction.
To remember who I am,
I can go to the hard rock
of the high mountains
anytime I want
for clarity, to release
what’s become normal.
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