Tuesday, July 12, 2011

the time we spend before dawn

it's red like clouds of fruit,
and tickles like a dream

where we hug our father
and tuck our little sister

into bed, promising her
that if she closes her eyes

today is gone and isn't she
lucky that she'll forget

everything while we're
still driving east into the

crimson morning holding
naught but our heads toward the sky

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