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                                              poets do neither report nor
                                walk around enrapt in transport but
                                ’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought

                it was not
a rapturous contemplation
                                with the elm by the cemetery near her home
                it was not a conversation
                                eyes held by branch and lean

                it was just a glance awhile
and turn it was round-cheek smile and on to something else
                                but later
                                              lingered through dark gap of tooth –
                colossal now –
                                              it was in
                                that the tree rooted in the ground below
                                              to find the fibrous voices





being wormhole: preee- / senting // en- / senting
eyes wormhole: session
smile wormhole: “don’t move / just die / over and over … / be true to / yourself / and don’t move” / – Suzuki Roshi
Sylvia Plath wormhole: Sylvia
voices wormhole: 0.42
writing wormhole: ‘I wanted to write a poem’