Muffin of Sunsets, by Elaine Equi


The sky is melting. Me too.

Who hasn’t seen it this way?

 

Pink between the castlework

of buildings.

 

Pensive syrup

drizzled over clouds.

 

It is almost catastrophic how heavenly.

 

A million poets, at least,

have stood in this very spot,

groceries in hand, wondering:

 

“Can I witness the Rapture

and still make it home in time for dinner?”

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