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too big to miss, fenced in with words, a brute just ripe for the kids picking plunging his hands in the bush weight of fruit in his hands, plump vibrant, ready to pluck, smooth skins tempting with whispers of sweetness claws and barbs nip, rake, reminders of ... and the sun beats down, helps him drop the wall a barricade, ringing that tide the wash of red and the klaxon calls, one guard stubs his cigarette grinds the supposition with his heel, taps George then leads the way back, between the fruit and the flowers and George walks gently behind knowing that it's not time not yet licks the blood from the scratches on the back of his hand and the crushed juice from his palm smiles not harvest time yet 54

Profile for Conversation Poetry

CPQ Summer 2012  

CPQ Summer 2012

CPQ Summer 2012  

CPQ Summer 2012

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