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Underneath the dock
in midnight bath water
our skin is slippery
when we touch
which is
as often
as possible.

Water flows below the skin of September
the eye of mars, a voyeuristic pleasure,
(for who I do not know.)

But swing we do like children towards
the silhouettes of trees.
Intrinsically our hands hold as close
as molecules allow,
and then

we push science somehow.
In the hope that Orion
will take off his belt

and find the corners of our bodies
like a good game of chess,

(expressive porcelain horses running helpless in my chest.)

Only seconds left before you slip
back into the human grips of airports and cars
children; but not ours, not us.
The swing in the dead wind is helpless

to centripetal force.

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