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your earth speaks to mine
in ways not unlike precipitation;
condensation under your nails
collects and drips
onto my face of mulch
and compost brain,
kicking up the bits
of essential oils locked,
distilled in my lungs
or my boughs
or a hole in the ground,
(for) everything fills with rain,
even the brass scales
sharing skyspace
with a simple ******'s dress
sitting outside the snow-globe
atmosphere we breathe
playful as nakedness
sore as creation
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