Saturn

The heart breaks 

a million fold

one hand pickup 

Simply enough

The heron flies above 

it’s wings are closed 

How does the moon know

I rattle the inner lead 

Saturns rings still turn 

For a mile 

I chase the bus 

Sticks of fennel fall 

So I mustn’t stop 

For the best ones rise

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The good ole days 

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What are books without the hands?