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Friday, April 16, 2010


Outside the air

conditioners breathe

against the weather.

The night

sways its milky light

through these rooms

pleading with time

that the junk of its moment

be preserved in

her dense folds.

We will have none of this.

We have not fallen from grace.

We are inside the fragile

shell of buildings.

We are alone again.

It is as if time

had never made such

another as ourselves.

We are a rare salt

of the heart spilling

each to each.

Here we cannot

hear the street

and its furnaces

of empty space, its

sweltering of forms.

We are moments on

the spine, pure sensation

coursing through the shock

of being chosen by each

to be together.

We hold each other

and listen to the

weave and spin

of the words

of the wave

weave and spin

of the words

weave and spin.

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