Sunday Afternoon in the Park
(aka The Furthest Sense of Finish)
Sitting next to Thoreau
On this slight crevasse
Signals shine forever
Interjected
Through the branches
Folded over each other
Embracing the sky
Here is nothing
Surrounded by all
And the small-
Ness breaks its place
To peaces
Tumbling
Like gravel down
Weathered walls
Slick from age
The closer we get
The deeper we sink
The distance we own
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