Wednesday, January 17, 2018

CRUSHING

Little by little,
the past

keeps accreting,

squeezing
and shrinking—

perfecting the future.

A black speck of sand
blown by

destitute wind—

concludes upon a fallow hill.
Gradually

a mountain is fashioned,

force arrows
pulverizing

dust to a diamond.

Possibilities—
and all eye-

brows—narrow.

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