sometimes we have to dig for it, and sometimes the opulence of the moment can’t help but stream its silver/gilded tributaries over the skin of everyone in the room

how we turn off the switches
in the whitehouse kitchen
and stand/sit there
watching the pulses of light
spill into and drain out of the room
as they enter and leave
through the sun-tubes
this, the first storm
of the season
building/swelling around us


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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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