how the days continue on, sunlight
broken among the heart-shaped catalpa leaves
above, the wind no longer a voice from long ago
but a slow brushing of our hair, perhaps, an untangling,
a trace of fingertips that wake us at dawn.
Love, the world is at work in the deep erasure
of all we have ever known, our own hands given
to the task of dismantling the starfield meditations
of God. And yet, we continue these small gestures
to one another, our mouths dreaming syllables
over the curving landscapes of the lovers beside us,
one hand resting upon another.
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