and the tongue of the
Atlantic sea,
the white of sails is
reflected in the waves.
The fathers of our fathers
stand
beneath the cosmic map, a western wind.
The leaves here are new,
though for many millennia
they have grown
in the Old World; seeds
caught between the heels
of knights crossing the
desert of what is now
pronounced Lebanon.
Love is a strange thing.
When in the morning I
drove to these low tides
I wanted to believe that I
had forgotten
the hollowness in the
center of your back.
We cannot choose the parts
of the body we will forget.
The moon wants to forget
that in one thousand years
she will break, scatter
through the darkness
touching the arms and legs
of her earth.
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