the trouble of writing a poem every day
is one of revelation
if insight came this easy
with the clang of each alarm
we'd greet ourselves
"i see you " each morning
then move throughout the day
on the air of truth and light
unafraid to touch and go
the only poems would be our hands
reaching out to hold another
each fingertip a psalm in its own right
we'd carry them open in constant surrender
our palms the clean slate on which heaven would write
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