A Dialectic
Always distrust the almost-the-same,
the not-quite-there, the sugar substitutes
and waxy imitations of skin contact,
always distrust that moment when reality melts,
when concrete of sidestreets seems to bend
with sea air and Proms string swells,
they never do measure to life as it is:
a choice amongst poisons where it
takes to a kiss-mark of swirling ink,
and you dance on pen tips,
a mixed metaphor of still spring
love that calms even as rushing,
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