Theory's also chalk.
It flitters. I walk away from theory
when I weigh. Then ask myself:
what is and will be possible?
I think the possible becomes
a merry chase with graceful pacts
asunder. Also pacing the impending
selves within us.
Common practice taints
the beauty of the day. All this
winter, I have failed
to patent thought. This recent
spate of templates has me
thinking: what if I could lodge
my thought, my self, in that?
What would I be then (again)?
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