I drink the last
of my coffee,
never counted
how many pots
the gods of laurels
have demanded
in these hours
wasted on verse.
Now to the gathering
dark to leave footprints
for the night to bury.
and then back
to do more than set
ants marching
across a white
background
in different
formations
like mirrors
of footprints on snow.
15.11.2025
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