A broken band of light
shoots across the lace curtain.
And across the cat’s towel,
and the journal book
where I write.
In the morning,
when the shades are opened,
light sprays through
the prism,
rainbow schrapnel
on the ceiling
and walls.
We point it out to each other
like little kids,
as we eat our oatmeal.
And there.
And there.


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