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Eric T. Jorgensen
Halite
Eric T. Jorgensen
A night without common symmetry Tracing lines in pillows they lay comfortably in self-made valleys Each arm and ankle separate.
A night without spilled salt Reflecting heaven’s geometry they walked swiftly in the street’s haloed light All toes and tissue combined
A night without controlled breathing Echos lining the sheets they listen softly to thunder’s trumpet Every finger and rib alive
A morning without a difference of angles Lives caught in cotton they stare silently, framed Both shoulder and shin uneven
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