by jonathan galassi
Chaotic sun on asphalt camouflages
the order of the shadows that the trees
throw down in mulled, multivalent mirages:
wheels within wheels — I’ve had my share of these.
The clouds upstairs, too, seem to move by magic;
their hectic travels never look the same.
I can’t see their wildness has a logic
and I don’t know my wildness has a name.

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