Writing - Page 9

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The girls played on the grass together

Lost in something other than themselves.

The wind cut through the blades,

Each cusp moving in unique union,

Green tipped shoals

Not searching for anything

But the recognition of their own flux.

A knowing now knew

The chance of the cohered self,

The one who plants the flag,

Had gone.

I called their names,

Looking up

Remaining unanswered.