gentle is the wind carrying the past’s poisoned pin

together on the granite shore
risen up in silence
or, hearing
a line of rhythm
from the space between
these lines of long coniferous things:

you smelled the salt of the air.
believe it, you whispered,
as you traced it down along
each protruding bone,
each i’ve cried to in pain
for days they cried to me,
to the place where electrons meet.

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