two dew
in the fertile
stretches of the

i envision
a watered
gather, two

fluent spheres
hanging there
nurtured by

the rainstorms
of the mind,
spirit congealed,

in cold mineral
liquid, tinged
in bark, lichen

spilled from
the old ones
that line that

shore, an even
in that silence
that cold stony

and shell frocked
edge, the water
whirls and twirls

turning, spinning
unto itself, then
the other, until

finally — in the
frosted nightfall
they be come

one, and drop
to the sea of
their knowing.

T | queen anne hill