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5.07 A.M.
Sundials shark through
cool zaffre, finning
toward dawn.
 
Adrift, warm-blooded,
you long to sleep
but your pulse, nomadic
 
roams again
the humming coastline
of your skin, thunders
 
heel to thumb,
taut as stretched vellum.
Press here.
 
I do, and feel
and know again
the drum, the single low
 
frequency you share
with neap tides
in the frenzied air, as 
 
thumb to palm we strum
toward something
akin to calm.