Parading

My thinking slides on the wake of the cricket’s sweet

Longing. It’s lit by the full moon as it makes a path
Longing. It’s lit by the full moon as it makes a path
Longing. It’s lit by the full moon as it makes a path
Over the slick grass of the whitest dark, —Joy Harjo
Over the slick grass of the whitest dark,
—Joy Harjo

atoms

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