the table does not mope.
round wood in the depths
within lives the root
favoring the cosmos
a morning can reach all the way to the moon
leaving shoes by the door.
lets get lost.
a curious eye on touch
followed by seated asana
a life is not outward
nor is love all inward.
crowd the streets.
a mind may roam for hours
in spaciousness imagined by heart
legs keep pace with face
not of things,but mind.
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