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


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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