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Little Pulses (for Chris)

The slow eclipse of evening
gives itself over in surrender.

As we walk, the trees have never looked taller
or whiter, or more fragile or so strong.

The kiss of moss, warm and earthy
between lips
entwining the web and wood in us.

Above; spaces,
air pockets for emotions to float between
mouth to mouth rescucitation
mouth to mouth
hand over hand
covering over unspoken gaps.

My words are skimming stones
Listen:
little pulses.

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