Second thoughts? That would require
excavation—an archeological dig.
I’ve been through third, fourth
and well beyond thoughts, am quite
deeply immersed in the infinite loop
of regret. How far back
does the chain of blame go?
Birth, conception,
parental conception, the
cries of the persecuted, the exiles,
the wanderers on the earth.
The hemlock swaying so abashed
by the wind, beaten into showing
its lighter leaf undersides.
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