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Citric Aloe
Intense citric love, the aloe
Of epoch.
Each winding wisp of warm air
Floating around me.
They leave me with uneven heaves
Endlessly approaching.
The sharp edges of the ‘vera
Glide rough along my hands.
My hands bleed.
The ‘vera’s edges end up too much,
And I sink to the floor, beaten.
All this yellow-green makes me sick,
But I stalk back to it; Hopeful
For a little serenity in the intensity.
Maybe I’ll find something else
Along the alley for my bleeding hands.
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