the sky is mine, I claim it.
The odd dartings of bats, even, are mine; I like them less than the birds
and much less than fireflies.
the single insect suspended in lucid air
between two fronds of warm palm
is also mine.
I want all the pieces of this.
The moon sits on a spiral staircase tonight
and you talk of a trip from years ago.
and yes, I want that long-ago time-
if I walk back into all those years,
I hope
the moon would be the same.
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