within an acorn, gathering all for our Ithaca, our guiding
dream, beloved image, siren song calling feet
onto evermore meandering roads, don't bet on ever arriving..
Yet, still we slug down another gulp of somewhat warm
creamed coffee, lick fat lips, and recall the tiny yellow bird
at dusk, the colorful seahorses flying across a cerulean sky,
and yes! that water lapping lusciously with such friendliness
at the world's bright, tumbling edge.
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