I'm listening to jazz while God
Washes his paint brushes in the sky
And the sun slides down like yolk.
These moments are scrambled, relived in a flash:
Stumbling through the darkness
Over concrete and grass,
Finding the light just to put it away.
Because we've found our words
Pinned to the wall with nothing to say,
Playing Marco Polo with our lips.
I know those who would kill for this,
So I hold your hand,
But look away.
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