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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







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