Us,
not
us in any common sense,
our skin pod hulls,
nursed by different rains,
pulled from divergent fields,
shucked under different moons,
no, not us
in any common sense,
but us
in a deeper vain,
not as in fruited seed,
chaste to the disappointments
of common ground,
chaste to the harness
of sun baked sweat,
no,
us as in
a deeper sense,
an us
that is rarely found,
but in poesy
we both profound.