Why must I be the first one out,
Each morning, houses sunk in fog
And locked along my lonely route?
The one whose unsuspecting face
Will catch the threads that spiders draped
Across their darkened hunting place?
Who finds the oily-feathered crow
With stiff claws upward, just before
It bloats with flies? I’ll never know.
It’s so conventional to prize
Wakeful attention, we’ve grown blind
To how it wounds our naked eyes.
Something to Consider
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