Poem #13 of 30


We are there before sound.

Though birds refuse to meet us
until we make half way, we are the streets
that the News teaches mothers & daddies
to close speeches with No, you may not.

Draw the day in straight lines and careful angles
swollen like worms in bottles of tequila
through the windshields of essential personnel
sleepy with dew and making us seem
closer than we are.

As clocks of lazy magic we draw the day
from stars, smear them to pinks
oranges, purples, to finally blues
by the time every light from Foushee to Ellwood
has gone green.

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