Look how the light bruises the sky, how the crickets shred quiet with their chatty back legs. Look how the potted plants open their palms for the sun, the back door swings its hips, the dog leaps out already talking, the house fills with that silted reminder of fires up north and the stairs creak with the confidence of something men made. Morning has a way of shoring up the good milk, strata of possibility taking the coffee-stained stage. And you ask again for a day of celestial advances. You ask to be witnessed, wearing your mother’s old shoes. Wearing the sky’s yellow blue bruise.
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