We aren't like those who kiss like fishes, lightly, easily,
quickly gone. Let's sink entwined to those reaches beyond
this human world, where tongues of ripples form familiar kinship.
Inside me, summer leaves have begun a meditation, and I wake
from dreams
as one might wake from fever, bewildered by the smoke billowing
from my neighbor's chimney. When the vacant sapphire sky finds
an alley of black trees, I feel you haunt an unknown layer
of my heart. How can I set in order this debris? It's all
I am.
Charmed by illusion, by nature consistently cruel and kind,
born to confusion, perhaps we shouldn't plan to arrive at
the end of love, but should move inside its mystery like chickadees,
those acrobats darting in and out of branches, paled by frost.
Perhaps it's best we accept the thrum of water alone. Like
weeds, we grow submerged in shadows, feeding on the last fire
of a stone. Yet we can emerge from our lagoon so tangled up
that children, reaching for one tinted bloom, will gather
both blazing quietly as stars.
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