Consider mist. Rain, air, and in
visibility, truth. Honor, it's an 
illiberal notation, tiny numbers

above the regular sized
making curves go that lovely
up and to the right.

Rightness, slightness, and a blighted
trail from where we aren't to when
we'll never be.

Bend, river, it's time to flood.

Carry our extra walls.
from the head to the heart to the
undamped toes. 

I see a recurrence.
It's the same droplet 
as before's clamorous claim.

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