I await tremors, tiny waves of seismic rumble to move me
to gaps heretofore unforeseen; shaken, my core
would rise yeasty and warm.

Digression is my mind
off-center.

I struggle to catch balance inside,
astraddle the if and the why,
lacking laurels
to alight on.

World-weary
from nothing, aspiring
to nothing.

And succeeding
rather brilliantly.

Chagall 2017

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