Sometimes morality seems like a fashion,
A tie too narrow
on the fat man's neck
at the gallows.
Or the fine print at the bottom of the ad.
So microscopic it looks like a steady line.
He may be an arrogant old man for judging people's motives,
or maybe he's merely a farmer picking fruit.
When will the deus ex machina
appear for the resolution?
When can we move from this cycle into the next?
When will the whimper call us gently through the garden
to the one flower
And Beatrice feed us from her kitchen?
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