Bustled, late, bags,
seats, jackets, traffic
and rain, tickets, seats,
a wipe off of glasses

Not that it matters, now,
once aimed mouths
cycle into easy polyphony,
the what’s-the-word?
Hairs standing toward,
unbroken, anything but at ease:
my whole body now
intent foothills,
resonant stimuli
to fill a body,
a vessel,
a world with chills
focused to wherever these flights
start, cycle and land.

My eyes aware of everything
and empty, nothing,
of tears,
those tears rolling
down both cheeks.

Unaware of how hard it is to,
the welling of breathe,
of rapture,
of breath, still and rapt,
not bearing to turn
not to left nor to right
not to lose
To lose my everything,
I am nothing,
I am euphoria until the
last note drops,
the hall hushed.

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In the earlier years at least,
We’d lie in bed with martinis
Or picnic with port out
the back of a white Peugeot.

The martinis were gin dry,
ice floating and often spilled.
The port, raspberry sweet
and too sticky for the summer in it.

After the picnic we visited
the…

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