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Starting Points
my hands loiter slowly, as children take
sensation in unhurried wonderment,
heralding the realization that almost
anything can be absorbed by robust
yet casual chance meetings.
whatever words I’d choose for this
mechanism would only adulterate
as words do. I tug your sleeve,
you caress the river beneath
the designated portion, one for one.
is time a flat circle squeezed
into perceptual illusion?
does love begin at the fingertip?
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
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