Look, I’ve already ruined it
or it’s ruined me.
The dawn I see by doesn’t need me
like I need it
and any extra letters it brings.
What we call mountains
is a deep violet strip
narrowly rising and falling over the green.
You might call them clouds
and be right
or hand me something crisp
call it money or flowers
and set it alight.
Copyright @ 2014 by Tom Thompson. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on June 25, 2014.