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The Shape
by Dean Pasch

We are erosion, the roundness of soundless
growth. Between our years, shadows navigate
sunlight. What we don’t put into words, obeys
the gravity of silence, like stones destined
to disappear. We are skin’s efforts to cover
flesh, holding together, stacks of bone and rivers
of red; each cell of blood travels, to or from
the shape we see as love.

Dean’s November 2010 Southern California Poetry Tour Itinerary

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