Is the light every morning
Not a kind of speech
A language that keeps evolving
In the mouths of gods
Arguing with one another
About the way forward
Where to place the darkness
For maximum effect
Assembling themselves every
Morning for the great procession
Into and up over their little
Seedling earth even to here
My waiting yard of weeds
And just down the street
A blazing bed of poppies
Like an eternal flame
Saying your name
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