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We are not morals.
A cabbage in the ground, whose?
Every sidewalk,
and some perspiring swales,
your open father-eyes;
shared by all, should be regiving.
But comes a furrow,
a family picking clean your trees,
“we want” “we need” “we like.”
How many palms for
still-short morsels,
silvered nothings valued by someone?
In often cries, ranks,
sewn by urges & nonreason
pile to pilfer, to dwell.
Nothing will keep you in a soft bed, forever caressed
in the bold thought of mind’s cleanliness –
a white room, a temperate countenace...
solution for everything.
No, keep an eye to the street.
Eager capitalists well covetry;
no instance of genial kindness, polite reprisals.
And the sodden still will need.
They will come line by line
until nature provides
alternatives to fruit & flesh.
We can’t collect compassion
& almonds are not alms.