Standing up is no less a miracle than Lazarus.
My skin, no less a sunset than an evening lost in chest high corn, sticky with summer.
Being still is no less a goddamned concerto than heart-breaking mornings wrapped in wool.
How many times must the night eat the moon? How many ashes on my head? How many feasts in celebrations?
Bones mended by sensation - sometimes just one touch.
This life is.
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