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Slowly, It Happens
By David Meuel

I puddle my palm with oil
that fills the room with cedar trees.
I spread this oil up and out,
wide as eagles' wings across your back.
Then, with thumbs like oars,
I dip and probe and press and dip again.
Slowly, it happens: the tight knots
loosening, easing, surrendering;
your body ebbing with the tide;
your daydreams drifting into dance.

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Document last modified on: 07/23/2000

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