HEAVENS FLOOR

A wet silver wind

dusts green

morning leaves

as they yawn into

mornings first breath.

 

Great branches, wrinkled fingers

stretch into

an open window sky,

free of borders or curtains.

 

Fallow clouds,

rows of twisted strings,

the hair of sleeping angels

on the floor of heaven,

drift without sound

to the next place.

 

 

 

 

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