poetry clippings

Poems are birds in the kingdoms of languages

Always flying towards each other and paradise

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Together, perhaps

We hear the sound of the universe

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The sunlight comes in

From outdoors, touching the wood

On your floor: it is holy.

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And I’m thankful for the privilege

Of a memory and thought

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Under the delicate rose-colored sun

Which never lifted above the horizon

Circling all day like a dim lamp

Along the gray edge of heaven.

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It’s good, he said, the way memory

Sometimes slips a gauzy film

Between then and now.

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