Ablur

It's amazing how two things can blur:

you take a brain and a drink

and everything slurs.

You take a century and a century,

and they just glide into each other,

future to past, past to future,

edgelessly, and seamlessly.

You see a plane in the sky

and close one eye, close both,

hold it, then open them: see anew 

how a baby would see

at four months,

or the the brightness

of a balloon

when you were two.

You take a body and a body

or two hearts, and soon

it's impossible to see

where one ends,

another starts.

You take two hands, pressing

but they stay firm:

they don't melt into each other

like chocolate, or

dissolve like dirt.

But in spirit,

they press through

each other,

like water, like air,

and yet they grip firmly,
always holding
each other there.