The river is a spirit, flowers grow
Along her banks and house their fairies in
The folds of leaves and petals — yet we know
These things are primitive supersition.

The car won’t start — you yell at it and hit
The steering wheel. When your computer freezes
And you lose all your work, you tell at it.
Don’t they have spirits much like summer breezes?



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Troy Camplin

Troy Camplin

I am the author of “Diaphysics” and the novel “Hear the Screams of the Butterfly.” I am a consultant, poet, playwright, novelist, and interdisciplinary scholar.