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excerpt : 


Modern man is desperate, in places hard as this, to have flowers strewn

Soft petals, fragile, made of mankind’s begging want of good will

And pistils fogged with dust aching of pollen.

Not the truth. Truth is like rarified and beautiful things

The tiger orchid, sturdy, exotic, a technicoloured coat of many stripes.


For evolution does not ever appear en masse

But in one, new, creeping root able to split stones with a sheering, newfound will.

Able to thrive on rocks – no need

For moist blankets of dirt with their constant hints

And magnetic fields pulling things in gravity toward the vault of death.