Out of Focus

Sharpness found only
in some toxic rhythm
we aren’t looking for,

can’t realize until
synthetic hues–
Reds of riverbeds

in an arid afternoon
without your blue
hand to keep track

of time and waves.
Bodies define
what space means

to us, how close
we can’t get any longer,
still chasing that

horizon line, that center
of the ridge where
you can see

snow blowing off
a great peak, with no
repercussions for us.

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