By Gub (the 16th of May, Eden Holme)
The day
Is overfull
Uncompleted
Tasks abound
I pull at rocks
A Palaeolithic sifting
through time’s rubble
Lowing like a bull
From side to side
My pendulum
Moves nothing
Forward
The edge of each swing
Shapes a parentheses
Between which my body and
Mind rock
Marking hours
But without progress
The prospector
With no prospect
Other than
To prospect
Then true treasure is not buried
In the find
But in the search?
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