(the morning after
finding the door
is overwhelming:
sunlight sharper,
colors brighter,
you want to smile at strangers in the street
want to tell them
secrets about life
and that the point is always to
live it
New York looks different
on your morning walk,
a lover the day after the fight
you look different, too,
the ghost of so many years
turned to flesh, and bone, and light the kind
that could bring ships home.
Tread softly,
fumble toward the exit,
Joy can look so much like relief
when you thought you might never find it
again.)
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