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Poetry: Natural History


We are defined by light.
Where we go, darkness is defied,
night swept away with
the casual motion of an arm
clearing a cluttered workplace.
We make points, lines, aurae
that separate these lives from
the powerless universe of
empty blackness.

                  And, yes,
we complain of the neon flash,
the urban halo that hurls away
stars. The presumption!
indulgently, wryly proud that
God alone is no longer
the authority when it comes
to creating light, and,
when our stars implode, we need
merely to change the bulb.
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