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Spring Runoff
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Every hour is overflowing with the next thing
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until tears and unfinished projects wash
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down the staircases
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like spring runoff, twiggy, muddy,
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smelling of duck shit. Every child
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a want in motion, in verbosity, in mouth
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and stomach and, then by, the product
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procured. Every letter left words unsaid,
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thought unfinished, meanings distorted
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as patterns on calico cats. Every
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path worn in reasoning the will against
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what has been done before, as all history conspires
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to keep stagnant
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the mire of a fresh and minty idea, that one being
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the one to floss teeth to, to count profits,
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to temper words in some facsimile
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of meaning
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of reckoning
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of knowing and realizations
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that this one thing
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could have made every other next thing
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worth the while.
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