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Volcano

Some days, I feel

it would be indecent

to speak its name

Today I cannot look at it


Driving to the courthouse

this cold winter morning,

from my periphery

I can detect the volcano

is veiled in fog


Its prominence

is overwhelming,

but I dare not risk

a direct gaze


To be clear,

it’s not superstition

Not decorum

It might be intuition


It’s something

old in me that knows

places are not unlike people,

or wild animals


Some days

they require solitude

Some days

they will tolerate

nothing

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