dark mornings,
with the world asleep,
pulling the red wagon
along,
the dog
at my side,
the post
rolled into batons,
ready to be
tossed onto
cold stoops,
only
the squeak of wheels
on the hard road
cracking the quiet,
with the bloom of breath
before me,
those mornings
before the sun arose,
with the moon still
sharp in the sky,
were blissful,
strangely sublime.
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