By Mark Bishop
Coincidental meetings and happy greetings
spur horses of friendship and long manes of correspondence
brushed and splotched as stars on night's canvas
to find in the bramble such flowers as these
it is a rare thing
Syrupy black words worth their weight in gold
pumped in full authenticity from the broken red craigs
treasured, refined, distilled and drank down
to find in such a flower nectar so sweet
it is rarer still
Diamonds, lacking purses big enough to swallow them
languor near a caverns silent stream chamered by the stone
longing to be seen
daring soft hands and fickle feet to delve and there uncover from blackest coal that which is precious
these are everywhere
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