Everything

Everything

Poetry is the sound

The wind makes

As it circles your soul

And everything is second-hand

All of it spent air

Turned around and around

And we sit here

In the commonplace

Rinsing the air

And rubbing the threads

Of patterns worn down

Abraded by familiarity

Yet still we come

To gather round in spell-bound hope

Ready as ever to witness

To be in thrall

To absolutes

And know that we can find

In everything

A little of the new

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