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Horticulture

 

Let’s say I take a bite directly from this tree—straight
from the bark. What would you do? I understand.
You are worried. You, all moon, all pure, imagine the
splinters between my teeth, permanent there like
small skulls. It becomes pointless to argue with you.
All theories of health and connectedness are lost in
your eyes. There are still too many fields left burning.
I leave this one, unbitten, and lead you to believe I
might have done something right.

 

August 2014_Poem 4_Horticulture

 

August 4, 2014, MLT

 

 

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