Seed
Some days it looks better than others. The skin on my fingers.
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The sphere overlooks the star. This chewn on pointy finger reaches out. Politics. Vissicitudes of the cosmos play on transmitter screens.
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Sand in my pocket, I'm calling on galaxies incarnate to come connect me. An electric guitar fades in and out. It's twang wobbles the jiggling toy figure on a spring in the car, which is as soon a spacecraft.
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What comes back here, what follows the seed on its great-arc through the galaxy?
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The seed.
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Let it be known, I saw the seed in its hyperbolic arc, a white sort of trail, through the frame of her bicycle as she road past in the close dark.
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