unplug this will you for there’s time
yet and such small faces working
with delight that what makes this
time a time of delight has nothing
to do with the current level of this
or the going rate of that—inebriate
of voltage, i’m dilly-dallying amidst
screens of forecast or frenzy—
do we hand over our better selves
for entertainment and if entertained
what opens in us, for shouldn’t we
open—the pigeon at the bus stop
did what most pigeons do on such
a day, turned each little something
over, dibbled with each dabble,
poked in earnest interest and in
that got something once or twice—
what gleaning grows honest?
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