Category: Poetry
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The Buried
ῥιζοῦσθαι a snag avows in winter, bare neath the limelight, withdraws and germinates into that vast Plutonian clay: weaving, folding, waiting.As blind machines sink into the bowels of convictions— feasting to excrete, wresting the breath that sprouts and rotting gardens to come— see the buried, digesting earth into humus for the next age: they who know…
Stewart A. L. James 