February 14

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Half-asleep at the border
crossing, behind some Iranian

family at the duty-free,
the mountains behind

the distant city with still
-illuminated ski areas,

like shocking clouds,
the highway a slick

of electricity–
aren’t we both

always chasing
arrival?

.

Here by morning
the harbour is

the same dirty emerald
as the night before,

raindrops cling
to nascent buds

with no wind
to shake them free

or shift the fog.
A sailor rigs

his boat. The stillness
will push us away, push

us into the water–
first law, another

element, settling
only for what lies beyond

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