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  • How holey is my sweatshirt
    When I split the logs, oh god --
    My dollar-buy all smeared with dirt --
    I swing and tear and am not mod,
    oh god.

    How holy is my work, my art, my love?
    I don’t pretend to greatness, nor to fame.
    But deep from inspiration seek the trove
    Of soul and joke and need and truth and game.

    How wholly do my days absorb my time,
    And nature: from my upstairs window, seeps the sea.
    Apply my mind and body, heart and every dime
    To make success from little
    and creativity.

    How holy seems this quizzy life and query,
    While politics and death and ardor spill,
    One foot askance the other, barely dare to tarry,
    Yet from the well of duty, love and wonder:
    I am still.

    How wholly I devote my self to movement.
    And watching, stunned and dazzled by the panoply
    Of poses, categories, truth and grooves sent
    By the god within each molecule
    that seems to be

    Anderson Valley meadow, Highway 128, May 1, 2012 by Zida
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