being mirrored in telic cohering of The Appeal

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I write things, then forget their there
because I’m drawn toward writing the next
thing. I forget, then happen by, being
amazed!: I did that?

From altitude, the tropography is simply clear,
having a curious prettiness. Who’d surmise
a mode’s emerging tropology intimates a beauty
of tropogeny through awed praise?

Dear Appealing, what’s the singularity
of sourcing so cohering, having no name
for all the centripetality flowering
in itself?