Orgic burdock, fellow traveler,
anchored in the whorls of my fingertip, needle and hook.
Clutched in the fur of beasts across the habitable world,
and in the robes of its priests.
There is nothing like the earth, except empty of men,
shining in the lack of their greed.
Pray for rain, then, on the sprouts of our lust,
sure to make minor gods of us all.
You can talk about the weather to anybody,
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