The perilous bridge from my window to its reflection opposite
line in the palm of your firm thin hands
we ask ourselves all the bridges that might exist
it isn’t hard to walk past the edge of my mind, but there are many
roads themselves carrying mules and bergamot South
the way your mind is made up for you just by the smell
her handkerchief full of lupins pollen yellowing her white chemise
cedar smoked into her uncle’s blue hat until far away she’s blended in
on some other road already indistinguishable from your skin.
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