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Ten minutes before sunrise


Neon lights tell me

there is an empire.

It is not Incan

or the Ottoman.

Lines of vision whet

a crop of lightness.

Marble planets spin

in a growing mass.


Outside light itself,

from the darkness to

this cold morning’s noise,

there is a pipe dream.

It is not a dream.

My senses transduce

clues from far away.

Unfeeling piths die.


I run with conscience.

Its small objections

fade under God’s hand.

Wing collars and wigs.

The voices are raised

a centimetre.

They make joyful sounds

like water on stones.




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