Here and there some scrap of beauty gets snatched from this or that: One
child’s voice rising above the children’s choir. A few wild notes of laughter
passing through the open window of a passing car. That pink handkerchief
waved at the parade. The tiny Nile-blue tile broken at the edge of the mosaic
—all shining accident and awe. And this
last second or two of dreaming
in which your face
returns to me completely. Not
even needing to be, being
so alive again to me.
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