We, you and us, flesh and words,
Rush to run away from this
Into the arms of not us.
Well, she was still young, writing
Of hopeful rushing, Joanne
Was, and then more decades rushed
Past her, and then she wasn’t.
This morning, those bodies crushed
In recent catastrophes
Remind us, whether you rush
Out into the world or sit
With us, smitten with glory,
What’s not is dimensionless.
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