Prose enough to fill an autumn
fell last night from trees shaken by wind.
Sweepers who rose with the sun
and bai tou weng sing brown
yellow orange red to poetry on gray stone
green grass earth the color of rust. When
the arc of fallen prose curves across a line
of sand between paving stones, it bends
light starlike. Eyes see slant.
Upcoming EventsOct4Fri12:15 pm A Song of Freedom: Reinventing the Franciscan RevolutionA Song of Freedom: Reinventing t…Oct 4 @ 12:15 pm – 1:15 pmFirst Friday lecture at the Chicago Cultural Center Share/Bookmark
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