and leitmotifs drafted
in dreams
begin to seem tedious
and overly repetitive,
perhaps that is when
we're impelled
to wake up
and witness afresh
how the many rooms
of consciousness
also incessantly
urge and repeat.
*
It's a curious thing
to feel
disarmed by duplication—
the copy-pasted nodding
heads of daffodils
beside the path,
or the headlong rush
of grackle songs unspooling
from the cool penumbra.
From what
have we just been
relieved or exempted?
As often, the pith
of feeling will not bear
articulation.
