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Dead Stars - A Poem About Recycling
I think it's very dangerous not to have hope. I wrote in my notes just my little note about what this is about, recycling and the meaning of it all. Out here, there's a bowing, even the trees are doing. Winter's icy hand at the back of all of us,. black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute. It's almost in another year. I am a hearth of spiders these days, a nest of trying. We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out the trash, the rolling containers, a song of suburban thunder. Until you say, man, we should really learn some new constell