Eve and Plenty

The end of day finds us beaten
and collected, dusk full of hazy
beryl silver mauve. We make
little room for agony,
stretch of deep white light,
thick draft between the clouds.
We attempt to press lips
into words, loosen our strikes
dig out of clutch and trouble,
curl ourselves into ourselves,
waist to rib to slight shift in breath.
We lie in a tempered stride,
do as we always do in times
of struggle, wait for the moon.

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Categories: Poetry, Writing

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