I thought I’d had it buried, but it kept coming back—
this time-worn desire, this ritual throb. And because
it had a pulse, kept shrinking, then expanding,
it could always reach out, or pull itself back.
It had something to do with the sea, some sense
of welcome and reproach, and wanting
to reciprocate, if only within, if only as a sign
that desire is also the hatred of desire
as much as it is love of anything else. The question
in this way is limitless, though not less than it is, well,
anything else. It floods and then it ebbs, then it pours all
in again, as what I learn is simply my soul swims on.
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