It punched us when it came.
That fertile moment,
time pinpoint
transforming us to possible.

The cold weather meeting.
Where your dark sky mornings
traveling grief-stone avenues
through cities torn of care

and my ground-shake winters
spinning lemon drop glasses
to-keep-busy nighttime void,
enduring grabby hands

would convene to rid of broken.
Chins stretched atop the water.
Dog-ear-paging breath.

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