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March 27, 2017

In fevered dream
you remind me,
I am not yet perfect 
Still, this ripple,
like the accipiter 
in the garden of birdsong, 
precedes and follows me
A violence so subtle 
as to seem natural


Yet I wake and you 
sleep beside, and 
our legs overlap 
by the same instinct 
as rattlesnakes that know 
the touch of their kin,
and I can make little 
sense of this soft power
of the wild alive in you
that urges you to find
the wholeness,
to learn to accept 
what is only so


And even today,
the cedar waxwings
forgave my haste again,
letting me see the bright
red tips of their wings
at ten paces by noon’s light, 
leaving me to wonder 
by what grace
I might find this love,
which knows 
no merit

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