From a Cubicle, Noon

This day squirms forward
like a pebble-flecked
mud road forsaken
and folding in on itself,
curled in murk
under the scabbed elbows
of greying oaks,
their faces upturned
to insects whirring
in a fluorescent sky.

Somewhere midway
to its dreary destination,
it widens to spaces gilded
with incandescent points of green,
where your voice lights the sky
as sun lights the windowsills.

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