The joy that isn't shared dies young.
When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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