You want a life luminescent

b3.

You want a life luminescent
as sunset over the Pacific,
as ripe as Eliot’s peach,
soft as a child’s hand.
You live a life acquiescent,
commodious as an old suit,
practiced in tomorrows,
betrayed in a child’s look.
You end with life reminiscent,
glimpsed in a rearview mirror,
not begotten, not made,
wishful as a child’s book.

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