They gave me a frame this day of new dawn
To work inside of ,  I have no choice about.
Images are  language and  frames drowned
In them in a way only a wind can raise them
Bringing about upheaval to  midnight waves .

Out of waves are poems made and discarded
As wind is no more to a still moon in clouds.
A breeze is a breeze in  leaves, a  whirl in dust.

A frame lasts a nanosecond, an inch of space ,
A flash in the mind, a word,  a  twitch of body.
Old frames drown in the sea of new language
Their  wood lies at bottom for scrap salvagers.


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