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To Please And To Possess

My look of concentration is a frown about the eyebrows as I remove seeds from a melon. A sonorous zither, a drop of lemon, the sun chimes out. Hills and valleys in relief. The shore on strike, the wind long burdened. Foothills to buttress an unripe longing, witness to the court of breaking. In the reins now, she sees more through a diamond pane. At her feet a trunk of folded cotton. Layette I too would prepare.

Bronwen Tate

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