Parading

Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,

or even the smoke itself,
cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
or even the smoke itself,
or even the smoke itself,
sinewy ghost of ash and air, going
sinewy ghost of ash and air, going
wherever I want to, at least for a while. —Chase Twichell
wherever I want to, at least for a while.
—Chase Twichell

atoms

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