Poem, Lighting

When a poem's coming on 
I go looking for pain 
A hunted refraction will mirage its name
Across otherwise happy contentment 
And its little purple petals 

How does yellow strike me? 
Let me count the dawn's ways
Upper branches sway bud promises 
Trunks are standing mirrors 
And the lawn and the table 
Wonder what it's like to be wild 

The grass is grayer on the other side of 
These standing waves 
When blue mates with black 
The morning's echolocation 
Dislocates sounds from song 

Our gaze avoids our haze 
It's a dada game, pre-played 
By paternalistic geese 
Hisses rebound across childhood hills 
Fracturing what was once called the 
Future into a moment to our cloisters

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