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I write my new poem in the gardenBut not like Mary OliverMore like meDirt under my fingernailsReal dirtI can feel the grit of it Something that shouldn't be thereBut is.
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You were no woman at the well. The birds all passed looking blackened by the sun. It was in your eyes. Mine saw only you standing. The pressing sun was a singular frying experience between us (and I suppose the searching birds). Identity was…
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