We are the ignoble ones,

The sand stuck together by the salty brine, unfluffed, clumped, heavy,

Un-

Tossable.

We are the messy ones,

The riverbed clogged with twisted coffee-black driftwood that is caparisoned in the verdigris
of moss, that is pockmarked with etches from the mandibles of ants

Oh my undressed children, unformed by the maths, by the scientific slide rules,
Unmedicated and uncalibrated for the sweet sameness hum,

Oh my cacophonous chimes, you do not form chords in 1-3-5 harmonies.  You scratch across
the ear’s velvet sensors
in chromatic ineffables…

You dumb stones, you unrooted trees, what do we do with you in the grove?

To live?  To simply live?
We have a pill, take it, it is the surfeit of chemicals set to make you fractal in the grove.

To be fractal in the grove.
To be fractal in the grove.

Oh my darling orphans of the sea, as the surge of storm fingers the sweet tar of streets until
they are broken, until they become
abstractions of charcoal cuts across a pallid tan brine, so too are you

Fingers of salty froth whipped by terrible winds, destructors, eaters of the grove….

To live?  To simply live?
We have a candy for you, take it, it is the surfeit of sugars set to make you fractals in the grove.

To be fractals in the grove.
To be fractals in the grove.

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