A shed
which with usual sense
Holds pitchforks, mowers and
Work
And that is some place already expressed in a
Way and a beautiful way
Because here holds a place to nourish the carpet of earth upon which we lay
And then though to take this space
To jumble it to bits
Literally, pull back the metal,
Listen as the tech screws hit the ground maybe
In dirt for great grandchildren to dig and find and
Treasure and
Then
To swirl the identity
One which seemed fixed by
Millions of pieces and
Tech screws
And to bring
From one impulse like a
Spring
Fresh through the ground and
From here
A new wholeness of
Pieces and more
With varnish never there
Ready like a poem
Once seemed set and
Then
reborn
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