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  • Bespittled you spoke
    of the past
    overstaying its welcome
    in images,
    and adverts,
    and on the street,

    and who am I to write
    simple-headed poems
    about how 'comely' you are

    “It’s not
    the bark of cinnamon
    or some rangy sequoia
    that reflects who I am,”
    you say,
    “but the blood reds of the shorn
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