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Bruce Covey

My tongue’s tangled in chocolate & yours
Of strawberries, stunning Saturday angel for part
Of the cup & part of the dress, its wrinkles hosted
By a vortex, secondary players across

The table. The light broke, yes, but a cross-stitch
Is what “it” let in. Henna’s safflower, short ones
More than others. Very’s the simple, yours
52 and half helping you flesh & break apart

Or just enough to keep the reasons apart
Popping song—either rosemary’s or yours
Or back with which more groups collide across
Smelling of oranges, of state, 10 saves & a host

Of others, against the wall & behind, hosting
Plenty of flat reports supposed to crisscross
Or another pie unloaded without vigor, but apart,
Having more felt, six yards & altogether yours

Because having yours & strawberries parted
Down the middle, hosts of seeds, a planet, acrostic

Bruce Covey

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