wine cellar
turn around the hallway made of stone
finger over mildew, wet and climbing moss
the sound of an airplane overhead
the smell of the musty cellar
fishing boots dangling like
a trunkless man
it is always this time
i stand inside a version of myself
the air is cool, the light is little,
cool, some, enough, the moss
and I clasp, lean
toward the light
the door open
like a lid to
the day that
still awaits
our slow
eventual
evolution
ability
to adapt
to full
exposure
white
hot
and
not
burn
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