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by Greg Watson
Last night in your sleep, a low humming
sound mingled with your breathing,
like wind moving through hollow reeds
along the lip of an ancient river.
I must have loved you even then,
when I was still mostly rain and cloud
trembling with the weight of gravity,
uncertain where to fall.
It's an old story: the unfathomable wind
stretched thin between the leaves,
cracked eaves and windowpanes humming
with the turning of the earth;
and here below, two small bodies
folded upon the prayer mat of the bed,
where all our days run suddenly into one
and all we say is spoken by breath.
Nothing more. But nothing less.