The still point

Turn again,

travel the self same road to the journey’s end

where sea scuffs the rough from salted skin

and the fishermen ply their nightly trade

fireflies burning the horizon.


Turn again,

with the two of us pirouetting

gracefully cloning our separate points

within the evolving circle.


Try one more time

these long forgotten gifts

immaculately coating our separateness:

and choice is a carnival of illusion

to hold or not to hold;


to plunge or linger on the edges of your unlapped shore

where the fishermen trawl their fished out seas

as we float in the ocean of what this might be:

if I  could only turn again.

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