does not go far enough
but it must encounter
a little luminescence
in the damp nights
over the riverbed and between
the two maples’ concupiscence
where new words coalesce
out of sidewalk blood stains
washed away by poison rains
which multiply and spread
until living becomes the new dead
and yet and still you work on
letting the slow tissue of love
stitch up the wound of a new dawn
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