When the sun clicks into place
and miraculous sparrows peck at icicles
and the children let the dew erase their slates

then the clocks will drain themselves of infection
and we will utter stones in the black light
and you will shelter my nakedness under the wings of your mouth
and the wind will be our water
and the sky will be our bread


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Copyr­i­gh­t 2025 by Jon Corelis

joncorelis.com