The Transgression

We all unfold as music.

Our desire appears each morning.

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It is white lit, bare branched hunger for the entire sky.

Dogs bark at a man with a leaf blower.

Doors open, close. My mind and yours lit by sun.

Ravens caw, an unkindness tumults in the blue.

We feel we learn our traumas too late, but we are as

children. Our heart some days an orchestra suddenly

aflame. Closing our eyes, we see our salmon-lit dawn,

and it is no transgression to look towards

ourselves with awe.

 

Closing our eyes, we see our salmon-lit dawn,
and it is no transgression to look towards
ourselves with awe.

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