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Eryn Green

Here to spread light on

 

 

“Joy is what I like,/ That, and love.”

—Ted Berrigan

 

 

 

 

            The lights turn the ceiling on

 

 

 

            into goldleaf—all of them, makes me

 

 

 

            a messenger—each

                       

 

 

            of these trees is amazing. I see

 

 

 

            branches arc lightning, Lionel Messi on tv

 

 

            and am convinced he will always be perfect—that bravery is

 

 

 

            a girl in the park who could not look brighter. I ignore

 

 

 

            only so much as I can handle—no such thing

 

 

 

            as more perfect. We don’t fall in love

 

 

 

            just to cling—we open

 

 

 

            all the windows. I had wanted to show you

 

 

 

            before—a new lane of music

 

 

 

            and walking off into the kitchen after. The sun

 

 

 

            is fast laughter—long enough

 

 

 

            to watch the windows change

 

 

 

            into lingering street bells—meant

 

 

 

            never to die—map only and archive

 

 

 

            Arcady, the future, etc—brighter than

 

 

 

            our mistakes. Just like Prospero said

 

 

 

            no harm done. No drowning mark

 

 

 

            upon my soul. Bicycles just

 

 

 

            heavens I hadn’t seen—a whole

 

 

 

            new planet orbiting. Literally

 

 

 

            under orchids

 

 

 

            fragrant in the moonlight—that noise

 

 

 

            small white petals in the street—one star

 

 

 

            orchard

 

 

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