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  Michael Tritto
   
     
A Piece of Occasion
 

Loss of direction is a welcomed sign

when it doesn’t bother breathing, the view
that turns you by turning toward you,
electric lines of fawns playing
here without you, knowing you’re there.
 
The sun clicks in the catch of throats,
gentle questions without words
where slants slant a sense of passage,
with marks unmeasured shifting off
into rustles, close or deep, never found.
 
This is the closed-mouth inhale, open exhale
with moisture, fragrance and taste in a swim,
channels of colors, stirrings that unfold
lines, tunes, themes and touches,
rich but brief, and not a chance to fossil.
 
                             


 



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