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  • At first it was all shimmering newness, the softness of spring, goblets of dew...
    I could dunk honeyed memories, or those turned bitter, then snap off each morsel. Share and unburden.
    Then dive again into the stories of others, be moved, laugh, weep. It was anthropology in poetry, or poetry in anthropology.

    All I want is the story by the campfire, no consequences, no thoughts of what next, no comparison, no competition. Just hearts communicating directly (with hearts and arrows or without).

    I am content to be the flower by the wayside.
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