INTRINSIC
How the voice bends—
were we not born
to love & die
—a desert
opens palms,
the contour of sorrow
faded into peaks
of cheek bone & empty
bus stops of the mind
ribbed moonlight etching
alley ways across these hours
(a candle crawling the wall
or vestige of benediction,
a trembling synapse
tying together midnight winds)
The Bus Stop -- Gil Bruvel
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