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Bi Janus

Edges of the outrushing

artifice of our past

(because the past

is only artifice)

blur over the shoulder,

as the outline

of what fades

is less

and less clear

though it whispers

ever closer to the ear.

Your arms rest

more through me

than about me.

Will they pluck

a heart or a lung

for safekeeping

when I pull away

to a future we resist?

His arms, legs,

and that other limb

we share

are a harmony attached

to beauty and soul.

Three become


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