Automatic Writing

Spores that flower along the grassy edge:
bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning.

I don't talk to God much these days
except through words scratched on the sill.

Of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas:
more than enough to fill empires of pages.

You think I play in the dirt when I keep to my silent labors

—more than enough to fill empires of pages;
of questions, of rants, and bottled pleas.

Except through words scratched on the sill,
I don't talk to God much these days.

Bread-like and brown, fruit of the lightning:
spores that flower along the grassy edge. 


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