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This won't do for much,

this short breath,

this small pond of ourselves.

There is only between us what there can be between people;

air and fingers.

Between any of us; hesitation,

then the opening of fingers and legs, like Spring.

Between us there is so little;

a thin beam of light.

There is so much;

and ribbon of eyes.


You come home to linger

like a tugboat in the mist in New York City.

I know if I cry in your arms

there are more arms waiting,

your arms waiting like desperation;

a red fright wig in the corner.

You come home to linger 

like a band of smoke in the sun

in a dirty grocery store in New York City,

where the lawns have no bones,

there are trains running empty,

children in dry fountains.

You come home to linger

like a boy with a small snail,

like the moon with a wave licking it,

like yourself, out there in the harbor,

in the mist, in New York City.

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