--Michael Anania 
This gathering of chance,
each of us, a swirl of
occassions, flesh their
first coincidence, what 
passes through us,
waiting some arrangement
of our smallest parts
a clear space opened 
into an eyepiece or a lens
and beyond, symmetry of planets
not, finally, geometry
spherical or plane, sweet 
press of movement, place
where the space is
always closed, always opens,
eye to eye, each eye unseen; 
what we brim up to each
other called vision, touch
moves so readily among
something is passing through.

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