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Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
Question of Desire They grow like apples— at the core. They grow fuzzy skins. Or are just the right texture in the garden you toil that drops oranges and lemons impenetrable by the lips we roll on them as we something I can wrap my hand closer and closer they hang pinker than our own flesh.
The pines are fierce, In no way do they look who places tiny cups By fall, you’ll climb In winter, we’ll savor unlike the airy space
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