Where would we be
without awkward silences
that burgeon with vulnerability
over what we cannot quite express
consigned to endlessly roam
a sterile kind of wilderness
with the surety of answers
and every moment fully clothed
Where would we be
without the knowledge
of miles to go before we sleep
and a quantity of innocence
to fuel the escalating image
around the missing puzzle pieces
to revel in open ended completion
and revolve in a certitude of wonder
Lucy Meskill
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