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Peter Larson Peter Larson
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Morning Quiet

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The family sleeps and our softly glowing home my friend, my embrace. Hours before the sun’s rise the world’s throes dark winds on the unshakeable house. Its memories my ancestors’ steps hold me in the darkness while. The wind moves the world in hammering blows, paying its interest. Beyond the stoop there lies a senseless battering. I am more afraid to leave and still know I am made to this task.

When will the creators wake? They dare to waste their brilliance in a twisted and lost playmaking of reality. They must try to remember the truths that made the world whole and lent their forebears’ hands divine guidance.

When will the custodians look from their machinery? While they while their gauges and valves the machinery thrums a cruel pragmatism growing the darkness, the black capital over which the winds blow, the source of violent interest. They, they more must look from the cracks in the floor and circumspect this thing made by us and sprung loose.

I am tired and wounded as a tree torn and stunted by the unrelenting wind. Here is the dim start of the day and my foot hesitates ever more over the stoop’s crossing. I will not live to see that which must be done, done. But I will give my self to it.

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