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Soak
A tragedy is unearthed
from the sand.
Spread
a c r o s s
the land.
Perchance
poetry will sprout.
Or perhaps
drought will
consume
the preceding line.
Then Nothing
will grow.
And fine;
Nothing
can be
a tantalizing
peace.
Rest pens
for a moment.
Simmer
in
wet thought.
Contemplate
the minute.
Delay
the release.
Soak, baby.
Soak.
