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The moss and the heather and the grass on which I’m sat

How do we fill moments?
How do moments fill us? 
Each moment has its peculiar structure.
Each moment we look anew.
Each moment weighted with each moment passed
and the moments passed
which have left us with our peculiar frames
through which we view the world we are part of.
An observer, a participant.

And each moment which forces us to confront
this strange situation
in which we are our own God,
omniscient, powerless,
breached by ourselves,
seeking to avoid our own gaze
beside the birch
overlooking the city.

Spires made of thick air.
Pylons made of plastic mist.
The moss and the heather and 
the grass on which I’m sat.
The names which situate me
beneath the late March sun,
my face freshly shaven. 




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