by Peter Balakian
The day comes in strips of yellow glass over trees.
When I tell you that day is a poem
I’m only talking to you and only the sky is listening.
The sky is listening; the sky is as hopeful
as I am walking into the pomegranate seeds
of the wind that whips up the seawall
If you want the poem to take on everything,
walk into a hackberry tree,
then walk out beyond the seawall.
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