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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

More in no vim nor vigor

Hallowed

like thin roots twisting in dirt
below the wide cradle of leaves

the threads of my thoughts
weave along a looming sky

gray clouds grow from the scattered seeds
of a plump pumpkin dawn

wrecklessly out of season,
a moment metamorphasizes me

i am the pollywog
short of pawtucket falls

swimming, waiting to leap
 

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