You know by the time
you read this, things
will have changed. How
perfect the morning glory
fills its trellis, each
purple flower, crinkled
then sprouts, telling us
something. In the heat,
under sun's yellow shine,
light, with its own womb,
subject to gravity, expulsion,
is the cement which holds all
things together, briefly.
Then old Mrs. Bennett, still
dressed in her see-through
sleeping gown, dessimates
the vines. In a pile she
throws the mangled glories
to the goats who have no sense
of beauty or time. And though,
Mrs. Bennet loves her goats
who will forgive her for
feeding beauty to the mouths
of stinky goats?
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