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Under the mat of torn-off bracken, we foraged like a lover for a hot wet hole of a heart to put our fingers in. I was on the lower flank, you were on the rise. You said, make your fingers three inches apart and go down to the knuckle then open up the groove and slip a clove in even if it has no roots it will grow roots. Our hands were hidden by the brush of ferns on the backs of our wrists. This is what we found by accident and you just know don’t you don’t you you know all its tricks. This is what we drag up long hills where the water drowns in the limpid ruts. All you tell is the truth and what has occurred leaning into the wind of a word unfamiliar as you utter it. And then you took your hand out of your pocket and showed it to me.




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