Persistent Flame

If only sky spray had prophecy,
had pleasant answers in the clouds,
I would listen with light and nerve,
unravel as coiled hem. I would open
my mouth to breathe not speak,
stand under slow gray recession, sweep
misgivings inside the lines of buildings,
behind shadows, truths of dark and day.
If only the sky made room for both of us,
for all of us, I would rely on sunrise
as a matter of forgiveness;
worry less about persistent flame.



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Categories: Writing

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