Every morning the Earth turns this house towards the sun;
Turns it away, to darkness, when the day is done.

On the surface grasses, insects, moles, rabbits, deer,
Bears, rivers, mountains arise, reach, and disappear.

After lunch, I nap, sleep away the afternoon;
In the evening, drink dark beer, stare southward down
Across the valley as the other stars turn on.

Today I am as happy as a clam.
Clam happy is the how of how I am—
Although I do not understand just why
The happiness of bivalves marks the high

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What did Jack say then to save the day?
I wish I knew. I wish that I could say
How Jack was a pure farm-bred Aristotle,
Who knew, by nature, how to move the throttle
Of the passions of both man and beast;
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This morning for the first time all this year
I walked up Bailor Hill with all my gear—
My jacket, vest, and hat, and gloves—stowed ‘way
In my pack, so warm it was today.

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Though she was mute, Jack knew, somehow, the groove
That she was in, and he did not approve.
He was no racist—I swear that this is true—
But give his Io to a man that’s blue? Read the rest of this entry »

Io was a natural mother,
Who much prefers to take another’s
Hurt, if possible, on her self, rather
Than see some other being in pain. If tears
Must fall, then let the tears be hers.

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