Perhaps you'll press your warm lips to mine
Since all presence gropes after
scarcely more
Than a word the skin of a thought
surrendered
To thirst O between our questions and
ourselves
We're without idea without memory hear
only
Sounds that flock around what's not
expressed
A theme of migration in which we may
find
The promised sighs of God as if this
conundrum
Surmounts the world displays some
kind of truth
As if we see the visible rhythm in its final flight
Where certain stars might shine for
us might lure
Us beyond the last absence the
accomplice
Of creation and finally there comes
a moment
When no distance appears to provoke
us
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