We seem to flow again as lovers do
when we commune on further than our thoughts,
on more than duvets on the winter bed,
as we have lost the count of passing goods

and a bare landscape is a sudden gift,
with feral roads and wonders diminute
that brave the eye for meaning unadorned
and bask on solitary words to play.

Our language lies between the rural lines,
our nouns the solid graces of this world,
as sound is made implicit by the voice
of fellow days in duly connivance.

The End

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