3 miles high

a whir is the morning of soft pastel sky.

the world’s smooth blue sweater

for the rich green of summer

has me philosophically thinking

of a spin gone awry.

what could the daytimers possibly know

of the vast riches of space?

would the nighthaunters feel confined

underneath three miles high?

could there be such a dimension

in their spatially innocuous minds?

my sweater’s off.

my t-shirt’s green.

the sun is hot.

i’m seeing things.

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