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Aubade
I.
I have shown up for morning, a late guest.
Light becomes more light-like, less God-like.
The ordered nonsense of birds gets me through the day.
The body is a day to get through, too.
It's in the way.
The light is full of holes, and nothing gets through.
II.
The sky is nothing
but an emotion
God is having right now.
III.
Where do I take myself from here?
To the Canyon of Thought,
the City of Forgetting?
I would like to place these thoughts
on a subway train
or in the mouth of a gargoyle on a Fifth Avenue building.
They'd sit there like a little group of people, waiting.
They would feel safe in that stone center.
I would let them go.
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