What happens to my notes
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Describe a Fact, Reveal a Mystery

The fact against which life presses
is that I have no child. I lack
thankfulness, perhaps,
to dwell on what is not.

Early morning, pressing, pulling
through fingers formless dough
that will rise into a small, good thing. Satisfaction
comes in imprecise shapes, sparse knowledge
meted out in glimpses through foggy windows.

Hope today is a thing with flour I press.

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