Tesselation and Return

Do you remember when we cracked our saddles against the flared skyline?

Morning is a container of lists now.
You rail in tight packets
and wear the fallen prism.
Swimming sidelong, the ring
in miniature
slides in next to the scratches
you squint into my waterlogged

Your paddle, my web.
Your vigil, my birth.

The inverse of collapse is an empty rescue.

(Your collar
my attempt to soar)


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