It’s a click, like a pilot lighting,
Like the lamp, turning it on,
The door opening, between
The dark and the day out there:
Am my own poetry, am grammar.
It wears me, moves me and with me,
The Mojave in rain, a shape
Like rain, shifting over the land
And the curled, shaking leaf
Opened and chemical.
Am the rain, changing with it,
Changing it, even after the rain.
Am the light to come, lucid
Formed by it, filled with reflexes,
The synapse fires--the word!
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