We are looking for our stories
In the park ,under a thin tree
On green bench or thereabouts.
Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words
On bare feet to earth, cracked
Like mind in a nothing’s duress.
The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words.
Stories are just words of things
Behind , wiggling worms found
Under long lying stones in sun.
They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.
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