November 9, 1968 (I was 23)
Fog morning mist
most delicate of webs
of the astounding variety only seen holding together the green
in loose shrubbery when the sun is right
or when traced against gray in shattered glass dew
Your creator walks upon eyelashes
seeing all things forming and un-forming
in its strict infinity of patterns
devouring insignificant morsels
allowing their clarity for only a second
and planning new threads even as we dissolve
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