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While You Turn My Mother Into Your Handbag

You trade the sun

for sudden moons –

the reflections
on your shovel

transform

into soil and otter.

In the moment
you kneel,

speculations rise
like glass

from your skin.

The shine of diamond –

crows plant themselves

in the place
of violets

blacken the earth.

(That soft break

from violet to
violent)

I learned what it meant
for words to sound
sexual –

sulk and sea,

translucent
sounds.

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

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