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Zack Moy
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Poetry1 min read

Dewdrops down a window pane
inside a four door house
forged by a foreign architect
native to my country.

Red white and blue shine across the glass
turning water into neon against a
science universally known:
it says so on a sign across my front window.

Will it make a difference
if I absorb these photons in my brown eyes?
Bold blue eyes are a sign of loneliness
and it always rains between state prisons.

Rain drops commit suicide off clouds
rather than serving their sentence
without cold air to parachute into
snowflakes (too much makes hale is hard)

but precipitation pressures eyes into
blinking and playing hard to get.
I’ve always wondered why its
winking that makes your heart regret.

I’ve only driven foreign chemistry
against an equilibrium controlling the combustion
of rain. It’s clean with no precipitate.
And being green is being evaporated.

I respond by staring. And inadequately preparing
my apologies for shining my brights
to every American car I’ve ever come across
in my life — I am sorry.

I love you. But you can’t keep your
eyes open if you’re sneezing.
God bless you, America,
My home sweet home.

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