Dreams.

If I could lift that corner of sunlight
that slants
that cuts a dashing swath of burnt yellow across the room,
I would swirl it around without a care
and toss it
across my shoulders and breathe in its warmth,
its musty breath redolent with time without end.

I would huddle in its glorious arms,
sinews melting,

and dream of fields under a sumer sky.

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