Those hours, formed
like rock, fasten
earth into its body;
violence is a spice
the taste of salt
and soil. I am, at last,
the separating wall,
hip from heart, lung
from blood, the sea route
from its buttressed
path. Landlocked miles
gather heat and fog like
memories of loss; while
water thrusts then rushes
back from shore.
These nights, I practice
flowing past the breaking
point; a wave whose arc
fixes on the waiting
darkness. There, dissolved,
extinct and silenced,
what moves, what strains,
what struggles
disappears.
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