Each Fine Morning

Always the world
is going to hell;

most of the time,
it’s already there.

It’s up to where
you’re standing.

Cataclysms coming,
cataclysms gone,

the scars on
mind and skin,

yet hardly a dint
in the air on each

fine morning. It’s
parable, the sun-

rise. It’s inevit-
able. It’s arriving.

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