12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

slow and fast

I have never known
breath outside of you
it seems

your beauty is a fast, glacial fire
in your presence
I am sand turned glass
I am just the grit between my own teeth
I am the catch of my own breath
at the blush of mid winter light
through the window
on our thighs

I am slow
strung between
word and feeling
the shifting topography
of a life-song
of the lines on our faces
of our touch
that is the push-pull of tide

Time is nothing
but the song of passing
or the clock we turned
into a table tonight

The gulf of our existence
measured now by moon phase
by the river’s endless run
by the trout, stoic and undulating
as they face the current
aware or not of their own being


Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on January 13, 2020 by in Poetry.

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