It's finding a golden newt,
its radio waves in my fillings,
a publisher's high five,
a bath of spring wind
over lavender earth,
the bell the sun rings
to awaken an infant,
the invisible songs
that pour forth from cats,
its doing a thing that I'm quite sure I can't.
The cockeyed encounters
that slumber in hats,
and balsa wood planes
with rubber band wishes
that fly through the sky
on a wing and a prayer
and my fingers that drift
through your warm chestnut hair.
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