2 in the rain sheets of caffeine and ecstasy, shivering in feathery yellows of muskeg.

2 riding garish summer blue of joy and intent, riding and peering down deep green swells.

2 in furled sheets of pink dawns, rooms of northern light shine thru flesh like smoke.

2 in the automative spaces of swollen USA, driving the mind’s clean speeds.

2 in the shivering sedges and rushes, whose passions verge like timbered slopes. 

2 in abrupt exaltations of the morning, voices from the radio fading like tenderness fades.

2 along the sunset shore of wine and dreams, snapping twigs and branches into a fire.

2 by the lanky dog in a flock of sanderlings, where kettle or kettling is a word meaning a flock that flies up in unison, wheeling and swerving.

2 at the edge of a rolling, tumbling Pacific, where yellowlegs, sanderlings, and sandpipers fling themselves up at Knot and at dusk.

2 in the virtual numbers of the digital world, where algorithms of skin smell warm. 

2 , we know which 2, not like a pair of hands, a pair of shoes or anything else, or even 2 droplets falling out a sky full of rain or night full of stars.

Those 2, they know better than we. 

 

 

 

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