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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575902" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Day Is Make Believe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575902" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The waves seem to be learning how to fly, <br>Or just getting up so that they can try: <br>Yawning like blue eggs brought to the lips, <br>Overeasy breakfasts of the sun-<br>Bicycles sunken in their breasts- the complex jewels<br>That kids lose while playing-<br>Knees scabbed by slathering kisses, like tears<br>That good girls give in a swimming sorority: <br>Blowing kisses across a sunken street where fireworks<br>Are swimming on holiday; <br>And you have to keep your head up to see the forts<br>Floating up in the sky: they were made to be that way, <br>Like smoking from the bereaving day-<br>And little dead angels in those halls pinwheel in the <br>Attractions in which they find themselves, <br>And laughing giddily as the soft movement is somehow<br>Rushed through the shallows- taking your hands up to the side of<br>The sun, because you are my muse- and<br>As I am watching you, that is how you learn to pray; <br>And the day is make-believe, and so am I.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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