I prefer to look at the morning
- its round, smudged shadows
draped over someone else's
artifacts like forgotten furniture -
before I open my eyes.
The shape of the morning dove's song,
angled, ornate, refracting the first light,
the drooping weight of the hibiscus' breath
shortening as they fall asleep,
the sheen of shutter-filtered sunlight
like melted pastel in my palm.
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