The sky slides by so fast
we can almost feel truthful
in the turning of the world
to stillness. Birdsong and I
float in the space between
the traffic and the talk
of credit cards and sky
miles. Distances. We are
a silence, emptied of all
the music of fact and faith,
their clumsy rumba. Lying
in wait as time swells
and diminishes what is
previous and yet to happen--
the hope of holding onto this
or any moment is futile, is ecstatic
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