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Built up into this large thing, it certainly might
look like it means something, but then what? We might get to thinking
there's anything special about ourselves, or wait,
what did I mean again? Look,
the fields are in bloom, and the deer are peeking out,
looking for the garden again.

The town is closing up for the night, helpless
as a garden, or as the unforeseen responses people occasion.
Something you have to believe your way into,
which is enough to collect coins or to help a baby lamb
find its mother, two thirds of the way through the story,
until they have to open up a brand new category
and call it “lovers in the trees,” where everybody's good
and it's a constant joy, if a bit of a blur
and later some falling down and carrying back to the car.

I've found I don't know what to say or do. I thought
I should thank someone. So thank the deer
at the tree line, and the several streets one might walk down
at any hour of the night, and all the stars
one might count, with a helpful hand
or two in case you should stumble.

And then panel three, which is always a falling off,
saying, “Look, I'm falling off, I know, but I'm tired
of great art, or even good art,
it's always been about quitting this place, so why
pretend?” But we're always smarter when it's up on the wall,
and standing here is part of the notion, but then
there's the after party, where every letter makes a sound
and you have to choose one of your selves to be—

Well? What do you do then?
And for how long?

--John Gallaher