Morning
sun strikes
deep inside my eye.
I
awaken to scratch,
and the heat within
another
night,
having passed,
solidifies
this joy.
I survive
another
dream.
There
are questions
which is greater joy
where
pelicans form
a homeward line
toward
that lascivious fog
groping Pedro Point,
or
late afternoon whitecaps
painted by Parrish
on
a sea as green
as your eyes.
My
chest swells
beyond capacity of breath.
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