1787: Imponderabilia

My pain has removed
		[My pain has added to]
my one sense of self -
but without pain how would I work?
		I gather
more fallen blossoms
& count out what has been dropped /
		My chance crop
sucks space into trees
[No shade today over my splitting back]
		There is no held scent &
		my arms ache
with such weighty petals /
		All you see is beauty's
opportunity in vases -
		They'd look great here!
But I cannot grip their rough stems to
make studied arrangements /
So I work & fall again

 

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