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Cough that caves my chest, rounds my shoulders, my attention has been inward for days,

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Buber on the vine

Life richer the smaller I live it, the less effort to dominate,

win, understand. Better to be the size of orange ladybugs

consummating, the bottom one still, the top one shimmying,

vibrating, wriggling before releasing on that vine, tiny white

flowers blooming, unphased I did not know their name.

Smaller than the me and you, the I and Thou weave eternally

connected moments, the larger story’s ending unknowable,

those who pass will unlikely know our name, and this –

one life fading into the next, making way for those on a vine

not yet budded, tiny releases of unrestrained love –

this is where greatness and glory reside.

Salvation

I seek a larger congregation, ceiling taller than pines

the house of the Lord, you might think, of eagles

and the cascading fall spraying snow-melted mist

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Dark magic

Vanishing coin, hare pulled by its ears from a hat,

the lovely assistant who is disappeared, sawed

in half, guillotined, her squeals prelude to applause

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– For Joe José Raúl V

I rechristened myself. A name I failed to use, known only by one man: tall with a large

unbroken heart, deep sonorous voice, a new third passport, a can’t-find-his-home

wanderer, he comes and goes, visits familia, returns to his rechristened country,

explores. He uses all his names. He uses the one I chose. This, calling us by the name

we request, the richest gift, making us visible, oxygenated, we take the shape

we were meant to. He holds space for the person I’d envisioned, who has her own

dictionary, playlists, passwords and logins, has never introduced herself to anyone else.

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