It’s too soon to write about it.
I prefer Spinoza’s spirit,
Its embodiment of rainbows,
No holier than house sparrows.
It’s all perhaps a point of view,
Nothing is preternatural,
Just perpetually new,
A pride before there is no fall.
I stand inside an open door.
Indirect sunlight suffuses
The hallway with its sweet odor —
Even motes of dust have uses.
Outside a statue of mother
Asks, “Are you you, or some other?”
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