For in one way the pro and the other way con
What is it you’re going to call yourself?
No matter which way you soar
Up into the air or down into a canyon
The soaring of falling, the falling of flight
“You are” – “I am” – this
Box, mostly invisible but certain
In that delerious way, your impression
Upon others and theirs upon you.
That judgment jettisoned with the other
Would bring a miniscule improvement
To the turmoil we were born to live with
A grain of sand in the Santa Cruz sand dunes
And the dunes are nothing but grains of sand
Each breath could be fully aware
If it were.
Sometimes you think you’re so brilliant
Sometimes you think you’re so dull
Jumping judgment to judgment
From branch to branch.
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