for Walt Whitman
nature is a problem now
growth needs to be cut back
beauty an accidental remnant
my ceaseless musing hurts
without revealing its sources
in turmoil like incoherent soup
possible solutions never stick
cleaning the field for more dirt
rising sun watching in dismay
what we have done to deserve
this only too obvious heedless
instinct pushing its own button
such a situation uncreated calls
for leaps of joy beyond when
failing legs no longer spring be
mellow in your later years be
happy to have loved be glad
not to have made things worse
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