Lisa Russ Spaar

Brought beneath my instep by storm,

orb flung to wet sand path this morning,

you wreathed, sheathed verb,

you hold uncharted, turquoise, filmic,

sugared by treasons, ocean

veiled as the eye of the she-robin

that pelted door-glass yesterday,

then lay, twitching, for hours in my gaze.

Rise, I prayed. Fly. Into the naked terroir,

season of my beloved beneath & so far

inside me I’m already way beyond mind.

Fused, griding there, still upright

as within skin, I believe I —

until words come again. What is dying

if not the told clung stone, self, future

falling through blind flesh, tor,

toward I died, I still live,

which is the myth love makes of us.

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