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weak ghouls
they flee
so easily
mornings
the fresh darkness
at my kitchen table
silence sinks deep
stitching organs strong
my toes are cold
this Sunday morning
hot tea in hand
I dream of circles
of soil
of discipline
growing wisdom
the murder of lies
and addictions
of secrets in this
daily work
of compost that
rich change
of awakeness
late and early
of dissatisfied lovers alone
