in the morning distanceSuguaros stretch back to infinity
and even in their tiny dotness
we know them for what they are
how strange it is, then, to value
above sweetness that strangeness
unknown to itself,
deliberate in its carelessness
selfish to the point of oblivion.
If only we could make it noticeand share its light that meager light
from a cold, dark star
where no world revolves
where no world revolves
where no world revolves
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