Return always to the
first day when the world
opened, gushing memory,
its libretto against our skin
Doorbell sonatas and
fire stations scream
red in the night:
enter the labyrinth
of our every mood.
The last star is a rerun in
the sky, burning the
atmosphere of a
summer there hovering.
Could it always be that day
when we meet and map
each moment's lounging frame?
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