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You step into the pink air, a tree wiggles and leans.
Between two limbs a gap, through the gap the sky’s hot mouth.
It fills the tree sitting blankly in the sky that fills the bird and fills its song.
When the sky lowers through you, through your center,
let it settle there—do this every single day.
It takes forever.
Michael Loughran’s poems have appeared in Tin House, American Letters & Commentary, Harvard Review, jubilat, Octopus, and elsewhere. He lives in Philadelphia.
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