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miss-seen (a poem)


roots broken into shrunk wrapped bubbles

harvesting water from the pool of  a half-evaporated puddle

my eyes, my skin take in the view through the lense of a partially shed tear…

tearing my gaze from that misshapen tree

I happen upon a clod of earth, no bread, no paper

its form calling my attention to its ambiguous identity

If I were not wearing glasses, I would bend to touch, to hold

a sculpture, preciously carved, intricate

when touched covered with slime or mold

hastily dropped, its beauty lost when rejected

the illusion of beauty remains real

within a crystalized instant

clairvoyance lost

blindness created

by the remembered image of the known


in a brilliant flash of imagination

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