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Amending John Donne's Geology
by Richard Fein

No man is an island entire of itself. I’m a peninsula.
Dark waters  completely surround me, almost.
An isthmus is my umbilical cord to Gaia,  
a tenacious tie to the continent, a spit of land spiting my  solitude.
Storms have blown and tidal waves have surged their  strongest
but any clod diminished from the continent settles on my  beach.
And if  wind and tide reverse
then I in turn am diminished by  the smallest sod
which becomes sediment on Gaia’s sand.
And so the two of  us converge,
our shorelines forever linked by the alluvium shifting between  us.
We’re lopsided twins grounded by the same soil.
And across that  earthen bridge there is always traffic,
some coming, some going, some wanted,  some not.
No man is a peninsula entire of himself
for so many of us  protrude from the continent
like the stray frayed hairs of a shaggy dog.






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