distance precedes us
the space between feather
threads where the distance
is too far—your hand
passes over your face
this time
within the privet
wings thunder and recede
branches in the mouth
of the afternoon
we bend to pour our
selves into holes
left behind by thought
unlabeled undersides,
the thicket crowns above—
distraction
of what we think we know
and all the chattering voices
and car sounds in the distance
the call of a train, it all depends
on how you see yourself
infinite, unnamed potentials,
or pregnant stillness
that comes before the quake
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