Poetry. I talk as if I know of what I speak. I act as if I have the wherewithal to cross the Great Lake with only the lantern of a tomatillo. That would be bizarre, trusting in a green light. A starless expanse, the wreck of a canoe, a tomatillo warm from my garden. The day that was long lives longer in the nightshade. The beetle goes on unseen, consumed with luxurious eating. I can't, at the taciturn moon, be outraged. I discover a soft spot which looks like blight but is light.--Lew S. Klatt
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