Contact

Is it not the most desired thing
before we perish
and die?

Clutch I do
to your
sea foam greens.

Bite their curls.
Gnaw their wrinkles.
Grasp that ghost.

It slips so fast, and then I sink.
Deeper than the southern flow,
or that dirty one way out in mid east denial.

My eyes burn every day.
It’s almost like brushing my teeth now.

But I try to do that just twice.

And remember:
Mistakes are made,
when you don’t gain eye contact.

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