Angles of light are the song
of a body woven in morning
fire and cord and swollen
white in the air.
We strain to right our vision
against a pink sky
so trees will come into focus
escape prisms that reflect
the thick of day and turn toward
the interclavicular of darkness.
Take care our voices echo off the the lake.
There is still surprise when Earth calls.
One does not arrive simply
but must be pushed in and pulled out
each wave of intention
each shift of eye
mulched between
heartbeat and bone.
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