cider farms and cranberry bogs

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cider farms and cranberry bogs

stress, not intent, decides to publish, jettison, destroy,
or hide away forever, in cave settings, where dripping materials
turn solid, substantive, historical; roped off for field trips.

my dreams are chaotic, like cells rent with juice, crushed by time,
leaking, merging content with source in a tumbled brown ooze
that smells like vinegar, and smuggles generations in its carcass.

I have found stasis in that constant fracture, an effervescent unity,
like those two words whose names are what they mean; the cycle itself - 
no walls, no ceiling, no floor - just wishes becoming different in a void.

dreams like wanderlust, the possibility of seeing endless
lines on the bucket list, more crumbs from cider doughnuts,
leaving the smoke of desire in muscle, a slow craving,

circling silent over tree lines, like tradition, like feasts after football,
long drives through cold swamps, a deathly sleep from a full belly,
the smell of red berries boiled down, with perfect care, into memory.

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