Long as the last
inches before breaking
the surface to breathe,
as a fledgling’s fall
before wings unwind,
long as wakefulness and dread,
the moments between
knock and notice,
or shovels filled and emptied,
between brace and break.
If these were seconds I could shave,
they could curl like the first
trimmed ends, like skins of apples
spiraling down to the gold-ringed plate,
like just-dried paint scraped up from glass
and dusted away from the sill.
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