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Slow large drops on the shingle roof
lying on my back on a green cot.
As I reach for the paper,
the dog's wagging tail sounds like
a wooden spoon hitting the door.

Fog on the windows
from brownies in the oven.

Rain on the shingle roof
rolls over shale ledges.
I let the water cup in my hands
and feel the cold inside of clouds
ten thousand feet up that make me wonder
if I could ever find someplace to live
that didn't make me think of someplace better.

A previous version of this poem can be found in Eclectica.

      — Michael Largo