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Pat Lowery Collins
Author, Poet, Painter
7:00 P.M.
It is time
to harvest the light
rinsing houses, beaches and boats
with fool’s gold,
to intercept
the red stare of windows
fastened upon
the slipping
face of the sun.
It’s the hour
for the last tricks
of a burning alchemist -
shells made of glass,
sandcastles of bronze,
this glistening spell
as our part of the earth
turns away. Owning little
in which to collect fire
we use what we have -
the marrow of bone,
the window of eye,
an expandable heart.
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