They call it mystic when the body retires, clambers in air

With twisted spine or cataracts, as if God was nothing

But a lazy finger reading Braille without discernment.


On clear days condensation at the window

Is the best place to write, one thinks of childhood

With its hundredth of a second, posed and waiting


When there was no promise at all—not of the body

You’d become, nor of butterflies or angels,

Just the delicacy, writing across a living sunbeam.


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