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Little Pulses (for Chris) The slow eclipse of evening gives itself over in surrender. As we walk, the trees have never looked taller or whiter, or more fragile or so strong. The kiss of moss, warm and earthy between lips entwining the web and wood in us. Above; spaces, air pockets for emotions to float between mouth to mouth rescucitation mouth to mouth hand over hand covering over unspoken gaps. My words are skimming stones Listen: little pulses.
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