There is no peace, just awe.
All beauty hatches from a goose egg,
or is embroidered with a thread of gust.
So all glory goes to the stitcher.
Feel good hit of the fall:
all throbbing bass and sudden tears.
No life cycle, just corkscrew gyres.
The beauty of the world is the same beauty of anything,
coming through its onceness, its infinite almost the sameness
The beauty of the world is 7 seconds of a cartoon about trains
illuminated in an olive mini-van’s dusty back windshield after sundown.