must we always

that bookchair thirst for travel
begun long ago on oak-branch horses
penciled blank-book stories
and no one had to know
your delight in these treasures
of every hidden world

what need to share? to boast?
how we dilute our all
in the cutting world
when stumbling tongues fail
to proclaim dazzling deeps of upblue
though they ever pulse the heart

 

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