that last who goodbye says too quickly is your demure petal in the wind amongst the trees at night
there is sound like living and beetles rustling there is a doe in speckled whiteness comely mounting
the no sound of darkness with a chirp of starlings in the eaves shake a branch from leaves flutter
and magic as thick as girl thighs suddenly.

                                                      ­                   ,

                                                            

                                                        .


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                                                                ­      '