At my center churns a multitude
One metaphor for Absolute
An leaves a perpetual autumn
And my stroke brain argues the value
Of pain.
Too true contradictions dyaded
To sooth

Tyrannical gratitude in God’s
Accidental afternoon burns,
Wavers over southern pariahs,
My mother bore some blue nebulae
One mere
Genetic rough draft of a Buddha
((Three suns))

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