Simple adultery was how it started:
Always the body’s wreck becomes its port:
Makeshift the world, piecemeal the living in it;
But the least chance will sometimes draw us in
Regardless our intentions: touch too well
And the lightest love becomes a gathering.
No place is how it finished, here at least.
Elsewhere what sweetness we let into the air
Edges toward music such as the deaf might make
Tuning the world, timing their losses in it.
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