January 6

Bring me a sunrise stretched onto film, that spring
when I’m too broke to stroll outside. Or else pen
new day dyes to your palms, five fingered prisms, hues

pulled though skin, bent and dried, whole armfuls
of starlight. Wash sky on veins above
vacuums until nails can’t hide the bloom:
claret, citrus, peach yet rise.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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