Here and Now

Our histories echo as morning songs sung nightly and alone.
Now—merely now—our precious requiems of loss
for loving and warring turn.
Merely now only a great passage, a sentiment—some moment—can lift its head
as a friend. Only here.
Only here the poem finds its poetry.
Simply here the head is touched, the neck tasted, the eyes colored.
Elsewhere the morning echo ends with company.

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