I am, on this crisp
December afternoon, still
in bed.
The sun, midpoint on its
high arch, bleeds
through my curtained windows
a milky light.
Still buried beneath
blankets I will pretend
it is the middle of night
that the sky is black
and bare, and this light
is the glow of a messenger,
hovering quietly,
outside my unsuspecting, undeserving house.
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