Curves

The sweep of the earth, we once wrongly called flat,
oblong of the sweet ovum, edge of a breast,
the ball, the bow, river feigned by cheating machines.

And I, peak at thaw, beat of a drum,
tree limb rooted deep, close-up edges
of sharp reefs, all those things invented
by man, of fear and concrete.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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