Glory
The date and time on a digital clock
sings me a sotto voce halleluiah
as I roll over on the surf
of a shoaling shore.
This is how a poem arrives,
In a leaky boat loaded with refugees
all arriving at once.
Some refuse to shout out,
some clamor for attention.
The voices come nearer.
I am multilingual
in a non-vocal way.
When the birds sing out,
the sky will be born again,
and the Maker will make coffee,
then write something
with my hand.
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