Lawrence Ferlinghetti said that poets and painters were "the
bearers of light". Somehow I can’t give up the hunch in my festering city of blood. It's telling me that
our genes are made of light, that we can be traced right back to the sun, each one of us
an ancestor of her luminous glitter. It’s no wonder we have such trouble keeping
our feet on the ground—we were made to perforate through fence slats and summer
leaves the way water pierces, but without it's blue weight.
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