A force rots the bough
And rusts the machine,
Like a cold blade
Plunged into the world.
It hides from view,
In the miasma of privation,
The clearer smoke
That perchance results
From cauterizing
The wound.

Would that man
Reached into his soul
And there in its soil,
Pulled up the weeds:
Radiating tendons
Of ill-action, thought, feeling
Ever obscurely ascending
From opaque depths;
The legacy of a flight
Upward, but not onward.

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