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Poetry

Even so the peaches are ripe, their pelts cat’s tongue to my touch.

Even so the fierce poppies tremble.

Even so every night a dense blue like cold stones in my mouth.

Even so death rides the air, flitting and veering like bats, brushing my outstretched
arms, in passing.

Even so I dreamed the dream that Samson dreamed—honey oozed from a skull.
The taste? Like honey. I poured it into my palm and licked.


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