1909
6.82
23.iii.25
anchor yourself
in the big wind
in the great day
by numbers and against
in a time of thunder
among the arrows everywhere
anchor yourself
in the making mist
rise flower
out of the shouting
in the wherewithal
in the slovenly
no-think of news
out of the corner
to which I’m painted
high in the seas
let the clock run
hold on!
make midst of it
in the week comes round
in the month in the year
on a turning world
in the galaxy whirl
among the wild ideas
and true
be gone
in these few breaths
not a word
hang on to this
your cloud
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