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The Dismay

The way the sun lands gently on top of some white flowers unknown to me
From my car window becomes phosphorescent
A holographic illumination no poet had to paint in gold leaf
Or dream of

I might be making a fuzz out of a simple view — isn’t poetry all about that, though? —
I found a supermarket parking lot in the rush hour
Just to write this

Because it’s all that is left from an afternoon among the ones that know no poetry The ones that know nothing of flowers or the magnificence of the sun on top of them
At 6 indigo this time of year

And as I end vaguely — with the last rhyme unplanned — my dismay is so clear