Seemingly mysterious, invisible,
The implacable urge to grow,
Spring-loaded in all living things,
Is the most dangerous thing I know.
Only when revealed for what it really is,
In out of control kudzu, populations,
Or cancers, does growth reveal its fangs,
And we're undone by our copulations.
No winter arrives to halt, to freeze,
Our visceral drives and desires,
Which run, unchecked, in the cold --
Countless, tiny, white-hot fires...
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