Everyone schedules down a slope,
From potential energy to the ease of
hope,
An ease which is valued, and not of no
worth,
But also not the sum of riches on the
earth.
No one schedules impromptu poetry
circles,
Sitting and reading 'til their legs are
numb and purple,
Or embarrassing, revealing, reviving
conversations,
Intense musical experiences or
rhetorical operations,
Figure myself as a fictional character
or bad food
Or any other poetic comparison I can
use,
Or to decide they hate a new professor
five minutes ago.
Perhaps to choose between them is the
goldest coin I know.
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