Swing

How is it that we see      ourselves.
In the decrepit barn?
In the house,
The fallen roof of the porch
Torn down with age, rot
Rain, seepage, not the      explosion
We expect at the end of     being.

Are we what we do,
When we don't pay attention,
When we lift the door handle.

Walking to the edge
Of the meadow
One foot swings
In front of the other.

~

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