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for nicolle

We listened and we heard

in the space between us,

a small garden with many new things:

curving meridians and underworlds

and iridescent dreams,

shoulders to chest

like a liturgy.

One is when we are together

and Other when we grow,

so go into the night and morning.

The great wind in all its searching

has but one and holy globe.

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The sun someday will be love again. The mountain someday will be sand. The land in the end will begin again, and flowers grow out of its hand. I remembered an ancient poem, held under the tongue of a

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