A definitive view of the State is to embark
into a stringing of all the compiling lines
in all the city libraries into a single sentence.
But words become lost after defining claustrophobia
and soon after, an impish hole in the roof is born
with an auger.  Disassembled through depressurization
but metamorphosis, if wished, into twenty-six feathers
that can fly off to somewhere south of a cold winter.
Like wide-spread osprey with subtle butterflies,
where extramural wings follow their own migration
with flight over Washington, on past Puerto Rico,
leaving to possibilities of sea and sky
where tropical fruits like purple mangosteen
can grow.  And rest then in a Tao of aqua blue
with sonorous invisible winds colluding waves
to term washing surf amidst languid trees that top
endless shifting shores of millions of grains of sand.
And while you are here or there, every morning its always
bare feet first, as it is everywhere, and as conversation
inevitably evolves while day ensues (Socratic debate
forums of impassioned pulpits, bar talk, soap boxes
and child rearing), back with the return of night
there are as many moments of silence emerging
to be found as there are spurious dreams
which have arisen and fallen down into rest.

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