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Tim Suermondt

The Gazebo of Perfection


Well, no – anything built by man

can’t be perfect, though we’ve

come close – and that includes me

in my moments of delusion.


The ancients were aware how it hinges

on rivers, forests and mountains, a fortress

and village thrown in for good measure.

We’re aware of the same, but have elongated


the map and made contemplation poorer –

still we all do the work that has to be done,

sometimes achieving in the execution 

a hint of a victory in the final result.


The Emperor on the hill, flocked by hushed

concubines, surveying the royal construction –

and the jet planes flying over the spots

where he once stood, claiming infallibility.

It May Be The Colors
Like It Must Be The Shoes


The industrial street is blue

and another blue boy cannot be found.


A woman carries a yellow umbrella

to every Asian city dueling with freedom.


A man carries pizza in red boxes, delivering

them to my house, your house, our house.

the gazebo of perfection
it may be the colors
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