Bring the night
I, the poet, did walk around that day
living like I was actually alive.
And the next day, I the poet
lived rather like I was dying.
The morning birds robotically
echoed each other amid spring trees,
and I gaped at my hands, swearing butterflies
had flown from them.
In the lazy afternoon, insects buzzing
over the meadow, I saw the shadows of sunset
beaming from my hands.
I didn’t want to bring the night, and so
in dismay I covered my face.
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