On sunlight

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By Tom McCauley, Contributor

I prefer daughterlight,

the way it flows across the land

With its musical mouth.

 

How exactly does a field happen?

I used to know, then I got tired.

Whatever lay at the heart of art,

whatever electrons penetrate

our gilded lungs, just remember the shade

 

does not become you.  Swallow it

with a glass of pills

and wait for morning.

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