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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Edges

I find myself looking over edges.
Where the table stops.
Where the plate concludes its curve.
Where time ended
in the ping of a minute.
What a door encloses.
What a word keeps out.
The game is endless.
It is the outside of an inside.
The end of logic.
The conclusion of a number.
But the story doesn’t end there.

I think all edges
are entrances to magic.
Much as love begins
at the edge of the heart,
as if nothing happened before.
Then, as the song said,
my heart stood still.
And the world starts over.
Arms open like wings.

Earth falls away and the magic dances,
erotic and spiritual.
And you have found a place
that is real.
Has locality.
On the street where you live.
An address of lips,
for those who know it.
A coming home,
where you begin to live
in the heartbeat of another.

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