By Wesley Houp
Everything that is happening
now was happening before.
Fall Creek fell
through its channel.
The black calf grazed
on glade savory
along the fissures.
The false aloe,
its raceme advancing
skyward with crazy junk.
Each nascent blossom
was true only
to itself.
We went up and down a day
as if a moment could
hold back every future
until we died.
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