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Apr 2013
You pluck at the stems of grass,
Unwinding the world one strand at a time,
Forcing them into alignment,
Making a pattern, making it fit.
But it always unravels, doesn’t it.
The continents spin and the
Tectonic plates will not remain still
Enough for us to get a firm grip.
We reach towards the centerfolds
But our hands always slip.
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