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Bad Poet’s Society

It’s late on a dark January night, it’s raining in Texas. It’s been raining all day, for the first time I can remember since November. The drops are beating a deep, complex rhythmn on the iron railings outside, and I am watching the trails of water on our windows distort the outside lamp-light, and split it into tiny gleaming stars, polishing the outside world into a sheen.

I am deeply happy right now, and at peace with the world.

My easel isn’t set up yet, but I will paint this feeling soon.

Shine

Obstacles in a river, embraced by ripples

that wrap in tremulous Vs

of molten silver chains

cast loosely into the fast-flowing water.

The precious light treasure snags

on protruding twigs, bone-brittle in the dark,

or snail-smooth rocks, stippled with shadows,

like eggs laid in the cold.

Beneath the links of the gleaming chains

lie thick honey-tides of green water,

which in turn exult in their bed of pebbles,

trimmed in soft algae fringe, teased thin by the tide.

Sweeping along on the breath of the current

a deep smell of green wraps the tiny darting fishes

needles that sew the airy top to the slimy bottom

and pass with ease and silence, without comment.

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