Not sure of normal,
I wake at five with
no poems pressing—

as if that early morning
well is going dry. But old
poems charge in the evening

now wanting to be rewritten,
wanting perspective on
an even more imperfect world

begging some new balance
we shall call truth, despite
the science of what we know

as the latest interpretation
of the facts, of reality, of what
we have to deal with now.


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