in response to michael dickman's "seeing whales":
enclosed in the forest of thought
the skin is tickled by deep
sheets of thorned branch on pine.
made up of specks of dirt that
cluster to form blankets that warm--
hide, abandon.
and when the tent of reason appears
all the world can see
the camps huddled outside,
waiting for their tickets to enter,
they wait forever.
they wait for the
flowers to bloom.
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