Anniversary, by Richard Spilman

Across the chiasma of thought and touch,

Nerves write their own language:

An ancient tongue without third person,

I, thou, and those beyond the pale.

But when the barter of words ceases,

Our love becomes an age-freckled map,

Bordered by whimsical monsters,

A star birth, a white driftwood hand

Raised above a motionless sea.

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