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ii<br />
bright as that first day baying in May upon a book of sand.<br />
iii<br />
the quotidian ghosts of the everyday poem, skyed and branching upon the rubbled and the hill.<br />
iv<br />
love’s labour more rich than our labouring tongue or the luggage of language<br />
the labour of our longing.<br />
v<br />
the sky lit as sea beneath our twinning lives.<br />
vi<br />
we lived in neighborhoods damp with voices.<br />
vii<br />
the lives ablossom, the color of apples long-ripe in a brown bowl.<br />
viii<br />
then one day you awake and swing between a nest of voices and trees<br />
articulations gnarl beneath the licking sky,<br />
dropped light angular between the snow<br />
dropped white between the falling bronchial words<br />
dropped red into your life and home,<br />
decorating all that lit up,<br />
chalky breath and arteries of light<br />
roaming time for homing home<br />
this life, vaping upon white, snow scribbled finger,<br />
this air: the algebra from me to you.<br />
ix<br />
the sky lit as sea beneath our twinning lives, regained.<br />
x<br />
we live in neighborhoods damp with voices<br />
lives ablossom the color of apples long-ripe in a brown bowl<br />
then one day you awake and swing between a nest of voices and branch of gestures, touching<br />
as we lived to tell the stories we were not expected to survive.