Poetry

6.

Green, gray, brown, blue, white,

hues of earth and sky in flight.

Perennial spin,

without any gin.

Drunk off gravity.

Space is the place to face all

you gotta face.

You got a face – read it,

and weep,

at least once in a blue moon.

Get the salt out of your system

and make sure it precipitates that

water cycle.

Like a washer, that spin

gives the congealed dust of your bones

a clean sheen.

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