Anyway, I touch his arm and say, I hope you get on all right on Monday, and his eyes lock with mine (an ordinary office, me on my way home) and there in that half second laid bright between us is the weaving of their joined lives and the spreading stain of his fear that the scan will unravel everything, and his eyes say, you can’t do anything, but they implore me anyway.



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basket-with-oranges-1913Anger motes the air.

And on the third stair down, a winged seed from the sycamore tree, a spinning samara, a whirlybird.

You will want it. I will give it to you. You will consider planting it, but I’ll see it always, in five years and ten. You will pull it from your pocket or fish it from your wallet; you will hold it to the light, let it fall, watch it spin, translucent. And you will remember who gave it to you and why.

I smooth your outstretched palm, once smoothed by me, to make it ready.

You open your eyes to see if something so weightless can be visible or exist.

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matisseThis is a narrow morning,
the handcuffed

I decant. The table and the day slick over. The scent of rain on a pavement, that sharp rising; and your not looking away when I look back. My name beneath your tongue, taken.

And in the room with the stopped clock our breath syncopates and the break in your voice is the sound that I make and time since the draining of it.

You say I am soft and clean like water and soft and clean I flow. You wet your mouth on me. And did wine pour from your mouth to mine? I don’t know. The past cannot be predicted but I want to say we were here. We were here. Leave me here. I arch like architecture. Leave me here.

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