As I Watched the Sun Rise Over the Empty Cornfield

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This month, its chasms and secrets,
secretes the viscous stuff
of introspection.
When I seethe, I seethe
in every direction,
and when I speak, my speech
stumbles like a newly minted adult
from a dive bar at last call.
A feral rose for me
to lay on my own youth’s
unmarked grave.
I save the last dance for no one,
or for everyone,
as chance dictates.
To date, I’ve domesticated
both fear and trembling,
and when I hear
the rambling morning sing,
I string its melody
across my ceiling.

-r.. miller

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