shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Tracy May Adair

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Pink is shy today. Creeps more carefully
than needed to peek over the horizon's table.
Blushes slightly, wavelength just at the edge
of sight. Trees, upturned arms empty,
won't accommodate such reticence. There's
no name for the discomforting color
one would think the sun had long outgrown.

The impulse: always to wait concealed.
Behind a fringe of leaves. Back of the dairy.
Through closed windows: no sound. Even a sliver
of glass uncovered by blackout shades
is enough to spy on what doesn't mind being seen.
Even, knowing that seeing changes nothing.