Love, you shadow drover,

sitting atop the fence

splitting hairs over ages

of humans marching

toward the horizon.


Hey, Love. You old timer

with the harp backed

up by synthesized axes

predominated by screeching

sax and high notes

from clarinets.


Love, you devil. Come here.

Tell us about those who follow. 

We old timers do not especially

like harps, reminds us

of finality.


You, love. Come here. Wrap

yourself around the twenty year

olds and the fifty year olds.

I may not be here to see, but

I suspect they will surprise

the world the way I did during

my time.






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