O soft suspension—beyond
the street-screens of noise,
beyond the whirling dust—
there—is it still
poetry and love,
radiant, revealed—
a painting made of breath,
gladly at rest in a gentle glide?
How could anyone
who has once tasted
this strange, other
pomegranate
ever run out
of bedded notes—
but, in rapture, return
to who one always was?
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