There is no moving
from underneath
the horizon
gone thick
before,
above,
and avenues
entwined
in thick nests
of dreams.
There was a derecho.
We were
pushed to rivers,
shores.
Our fires lit
a low belly of clouds.
Our eyes were wide,
and gathered to them
dying stars.
The old world is passing;
the way children were;
the way light
came through
church basement windows.
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