April 2

You recall, by smell, the father, air that stewed
in your lungs. Mother angel was the earth when
she’d hold you. She will hold you when you dwell, as seed,

again. Up. Down. How well you begin
each morning, dwell on breathing, on feet,
on the joy that hell creates. Heaven
sends us dawn, and spells, and ends.

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

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