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Woman

Like a sweet vine, and you
talk, talk
to bobbing heads like apples that
your veins will never reach, for all
their climbing
they are ripped down
in the name of preservation
you are moved and moving, but a trunk
too thick will never
cease to clench its ground
Cradled in hand, you
are only ever docile
till thrown away as if docility were vile
you are a sweet
sweet vine
and the dirt
is unafraid of your travels
will they
ever
be?



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