It’s one of several possible todays.
We find twilights of reef birds
in new corners of the house—
though our eyes are still closed
and our rooms long ago abandoned
the rectangular. Our voices can’t echo.
They carry nothing beyond direction.
If we lose all memory of rain,
this is not the same as forgetting.
I see it through the sun’s color—
to me, it’s all white, to you, a fading blue
that will settle someday in my eyes.
Our skin is painted on and stays wet.
The air is watertight. The sky is sealed.
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