Stations

Palms pierced.
Arms pried apart,
wider than at least seven seas.
Seven unknowable bodies.
Legs, slick in fading life,
gently folded one over the other,
over the shadows of our children—
our red version of the blue world.

This is what we’re given to judge proximity.
The nearness of things.
The distances between.

And from this image
something of us is cast off,
falls and is collected
in a cup, in a hand,
in the dissimilar worlds
living in each eye.
And we drink.

Hanging in portrait, behind glass,
we are framed on each other’s walls
as sacrifice.
And certainty walks pitilessly beside us
with all the weight of an undying fire.

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