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Say you’re this stream bed

framed by green willows

luscious with mud and trout fry;

channeling current through eel grass,

tendrils, clusters of waterbug eggs.

Dream you’re the river

accepting this onrush

each blink each minute

open as love’s vast capacity.

One body pouring towards ocean,

weaving blue murmurs

from flint cliffs to sandbars,

flashing your twined

ceaseless motion;

your silver-coin flickers of hope.

Flush Left, 7 January 2023

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