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Aubade Oh God
Green velvet collars stiff around
preening necks in their triangles.
Fate, one might say, is geometric
as an equivalence.
We want to stay awake,
its melon green wash
with another color that can’t be
seen long enough to name.
Light ringlets are our new juice
at twilight. Mornings, a Rothko sky
spills liquid light from
and against its bottom edge
like the inside of a crème brûlée.
Until recently, earth held an
equivalence of weight among all
species; whales and insects, for instance.
We all like a good meringue,
peaks holding stiff as collars,
or the freeze of a wave.
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