Clayton at 4
The patches of grass are blueish if you stay up late —
or wake up early enough. If you’re there,
you can see the wasps parade angrily or joyfully around the white fog lights.
You can go home, but please don’t.
Stay later, outside, to see the other light
hum yellow through misshapen blinds, sarifed as ever,
as tires are heard in the distance, a rousing onomatopoeia
while the clouds inflate with a slow and gradient exhale from the sun.
At dawn, you can see those stark spires in the distance —
I’ve plucked them from the earth,
true ardor in every inch of bark, torrid, angelic.
Standing, from the hill, you can see immanence there.
Take the long road
and I'll stand here
and watch the words grow for you.
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