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Creative Writing: Saturday Night Light

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Saturday Night Light Shadows inhaled the poison light, as a finch crossed my eye path and in the moment seemed suspended before me: its small feet almost baggy beneath knotted plumage. I saw myself traverse the cosmos on a curve of time like the moon’s arrant eating when it is rising; how its glow tangos at last on the eyelids. Settling into the reiteration of evening making this one place the spot where you were. Hope is all the sap that runs downhill following that old path as water might, with its innate grace to become affixed to any one place, as a delicate vine or a ballerina floating on a toe. It is the poem's faux pas to want you back again so soon.
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