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Gayle Elen Harvey
It is what he desires−
light doubling the room
in a small, round mirror,
its smooth hand waking him,
moving like a friend with a
knack for the daily.
It is how he speaks its
language in stipple and shoals, nape
of the neck−
It's what he remembers like
flowers before there was
color, rain embracing
the stranger nearby.
Light succeeding light
giving birth to any space in which he lives−
Light birds fly into the
bottom
of the sky.
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