the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers has the freedom to feel the weight of itself we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density i don’t sink, i float on stone a piling of mountains too light to subside and must be rendered old by other means there is no mountain of a sandbar that can grant eyes to the other side of the atlantic guarded by a curvature that works only in aggregate punctured by dolphin fins and boat sails outlined by sunsets and sunrises clouds cresting over waves the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers has the freedom to feel the weight of itself we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density the other side of the atlantic doesn’t exist or, if it does, exists a galaxy away in time only it’s ghost bridges the distance, carried inside me
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