In a woman's wake, an eddy of scented
mane – gathered and swung in a footbeat's
trot of purpose – twirls the morning
stung. An origin sings its need in her mist
of pestled fruit and blooms – the rumour
of meadow's nectar older than truth
and its curses. This press of never,
blown from her sunlight hollowed blouse,
crushes tight as a failing vein in a heart
about to shut, about to blow untimely out.
mane – gathered and swung in a footbeat's
trot of purpose – twirls the morning
stung. An origin sings its need in her mist
of pestled fruit and blooms – the rumour
of meadow's nectar older than truth
and its curses. This press of never,
blown from her sunlight hollowed blouse,
crushes tight as a failing vein in a heart
about to shut, about to blow untimely out.
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