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A poem by Seattle's new Civic Poet.

Everyday
prodigal sons and daughters
search for the august day
we chase hand-held echoes,
revel in digital shadows
gallop bumpy, then ride smoothly
in carriages of our own making
we laugh
enraptured
by the grammar of our desires
we insist: this – not that, is what’s new

But it has always been
that milk sours when left
for hours unattended.
This tells the story
of how underneath
the dance floor planks
the soil calls us back
no matter if or when
no matter
clouds rise and wane
over a western sky

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