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.