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Beat




We like love,
a weakness played like a strength,
because it organizes the disordered
and disorders the organized,
because it puts the focus
both on and away from us.

But blood, heat, flows to no purpose
uncalculated by beat.

Born every day
under boon and bane
of what went before,
we pick the shape, the color,
leave the apple.

Myths have color, light,
but no weight.

We are too many,
making too much.
It overwhelms.

Love and carelessness
consume the world.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.