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The moment is unchanged
by how we dance
skip out or fidget in our seats.
In one explanation the Samba was derived
by a chance mating of willows and skeletons.
In another, the sky is spinning with the earth,
catfish are kissing the lake bottoms.
It is all so intimate the moon itself is painting
swatches on the doves while elsewhere a splinter
is sufficient to kill us. We patiently await
the effects of the more understandable:
wet lips, dry eyes, the single death lily
that honks below the pines.
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