All I see are lines
that weave endings.
Begging, knee-fallen,
Ninety percent
is us, you know,
particles of light
fossilized in sand.
For the time being,
form the jagged
cuneiform of lakes,
flowing in step with
their shadows.
We will never be here.
Though here,
in these lines
of whitecaps, the hem
of your blue dress,
floating as always.

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