TUNNELS
Let us think of it as fever dream coming
alive in the doorway, or as rain on the doorstep.
But there’s neither a hole nor more holes
to see now, like some days wanting, wanting
God’s love to caress the words
we can’t afford to say. A shape, a modern
shape speaking to me in the face. Sometimes
I’d like to say it’s this shape that speaks
the language of love, the strange interlude
in a movie that keeps repeating, repeating
in the shore that shifts the character
of our inner flowering shapes.
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