Poem Fourteen: Channel

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Pouring from the lips

of a god,

soil interior,

broad strait,

water to water,

your trace 

in bolts 

of lavender,

are we floating 

restless, reaching

for one another

in a hurricane

of strings and breath?

I see where they light fires

on the river 

for the dead.

A looking glass,

ritual object,

mirror, transmission, 

you.

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