Monday, April 15, 2019


Whether or not you're
ever there to notice
first thing in the morning
there is mist—

low on cold hills
always somewhere in the distance
outside your door
in between the city you live in
and the rest of the
world which purportedly exists

blue as a churchbell's slow
cool ringing
still lying in its furrowed bed
shrouded by mazes
of dark woods, and dreaming—

just as you were a minute ago—
of being

touched by light
made gradually
unafraid, and rising

to become the entire
air one more time.

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