It seems we cannot but be mere fragments
If it would mean many parts coming together
In re-assembly just like in a natural system
Or in a page of a novel, leaving action to guess
In the snows of Kilimanjaro, a rich woman
Content to watch gangrene dying in a snarl
A Hemingway hero who forgot to put iodine
On thorn wounds under a September sky.

Here within walls, there is no further action
Except dead silence, beyond a dying gangrene
Festering on foot in proud wails, in nasty snarls.
We cannot be making up things all the time
The way nature makes assembling parts easy
In programmable sequence of parts to wholes.
Now what ,asks itself against the wall up north
When it comes to re-assembly of broken parts,
Memories that had long since trailed off in dust
Their drag marks collecting rain in their holes.


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