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35.

I used to pray every night
and now
I try to just think that I might have to be alone
with my hands lost inside that language
their still gestures
watching her nipple
and being amazed by its pull

how many times we count on our breathing
so we might hold it while passing by cemeteries
they too used to pray
now grey solitary flowers
and autumn now on the fringe of being winter

now the dance steps lost between street corners
now your sister and my grandmother
and now my passive attitude to being scared of it all
the farewell and mortality
how I’ll miss her and them
what it means to kiss you and be gone

now the gestural space to(o) runaway in the dark
now light shards
now I can and now he might never
though plummeting to the ground
fortunate to hold her last few inches of chest and warmth

now heaven
now hell
and definitely just smaller
and now…
Posted 12/30/12
From a larger manuscript.
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