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Diagramming the Live Oak

By Martha Serpas Poetry

Because we die, we all die, and the oak lives, 
those imagined rings like so many glasses 

Set down on a warm wooden table, same 
spot, early evening after early evening— 

Became, in my watery mind, a crazy diagram, 

Set down on a warm wooden table, same 
spot,

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Nightshade

By Sofia Starnes Poetry

The orchard blooms, 

and strangers tend, in wooded plots (or tombs), 
blue nightshade, to the bitter end of gene. 

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