Nascent, sage, gulfs of air

after Levertov

The dancers emerge over the salt flats

sway "there is a summer"
say "the rain, it was no dream"

what they know they have in hand, they love
the human room, its basket of apples

legs clamor between


histories waft in, grafted
in the moment to a ray of skin

"into the open well of centuries"
fly bodies cupping wreck and wear

grasping tufts, a thought


break upward to feel, green wings flee

heavy slips free, slit and cross-press
what isn't blessed, fresh-running

"the dream is blood"

surrounded or not
torque release plot

the dancer folds suspended
there alone, half-known

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