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mûre
Poems
Nov 2013
Sir Francis Drake was someones lover.
The keenest traveller of your bodyscape,
I deftly carved my favourite trails
and over shared cartography thought:
How could these plates collide so hard
and still be separate?
I carried my curiosity to a valley
and lingered in the undergrowth
til a river rushed through like the first day of spring.
Separate, but as wondrously married
as mountains.
Old thoughts discovered in a notebook.
Written by
mûre
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