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What if we each looked at our own skin

and gave our color a name

a fanciful name, like the colors of crayons

in the sixty four box

or strips of chips in the paint store?

I think it must hurt our brain,

make our thinking small

to be forced to chose

between black and white

skin colors of no one

and if we are part of a creation

that unspools without preference

day and night, that balances

the rise and fall of water

(the lake steams as late snow flurries

try to close the shutters against spring)

that contains in sacred harmony

the irrepressible radiance of the sun

and the dark receptivity of the sea

who are those whose bloody hands

demand we worship evaporation

and curse the rain?

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