With a greeting, usually, a handshake or a kiss,
sometimes a smile, but not often.

They’d proceed, like great rivers, along the many currents
of intricate deltas,
to bed and drug of choice,
no one drowned but then
their attention was elsewhere and the sea locked up
inside a child’s shell,
and, besides, they believed all their problems were over.

In a phone-call, at an odd hour, which leaves
a golden hole in the darkness, so the darkness
takes bird-light footsteps across the mud,
having no place to stay now:
to bright filling stations in hospital midnights,
in the fortress grip of sleep,
she carries the eggs of stars and distance in her brain,
even her children with their oceans and their keys
for a moment only ever
hold in their hands
the speeding shadows of all the spreading wings of all migrations.

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