The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink

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feel me/read me/follow me

The Coming of Light by Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into
your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the
body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry.

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