by Emma

the globe’s meridians bore me,
and I deplore time zones and the lone heart’s

metronome without your broad chest
thumping close counterpoint. No breath I draw
will properly fill my lungs till your fine spirit

again issues into me. No eyes will level pierce
this heart’s core till your gaze again
sends the deep arrows flying. Darling,

remember: our faces in proximity make
a pure small space — a vessel or goblet
that could hold the whole Atlantic…


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