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Dylon Zicchino Dec 2011
Pressure pushing down where gravity pulls me
Against the mat my breath touches my chest to the ground.
Here in this state [this position] we paint our desirable beaches
On our backs beneath our eyelids we discover these pictures
Where motions are captured still but still find fluidity.
The coarse is refined [redefined] by the mind
On this sand that knows no other hand but mine.
Breathe [slow] in. out. Strictly by passage of nose
Both lungs collapse and grow incessantly [purposefully]
Without earthquakes this land lock breaks when eyes wake
Absorbing all the luminary intake from radiating souls.
This is where we [re]begin by exhaling our sins
And allowing our mussels to relax back in.

— The End —