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Of his awful
rooster pushing under
my skin & the
Dead seeping into the
royal marriage chamber.
I palpate my king's head that is
hard as a spike
But it is my own.
All this agony trapped in stone
I claim
part mine
In a way that the rank
emerald of my mother's world
would never be . . . .
Her place
is rich.
& My taste
is thinned.
I am used to gray flowers.
Up there is
too much teeming
Too much sap.
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