A dragon fruit ponders her fine skull,Flesh roars garishly, seed germinating
Rife with succulent promise.This mere box of a particolored cosmos,
A cooling square
The little deaths,
From saint to slug,
Midmorning philosopher,Mothers of demons,
Trains of thought,Forests are a verdant oraboros
Primal, smoking, orgiastic, still finite
So long a witnessHow can it be surprised at an endThat is not an ending any more than
A fruit can be sold for her true worth.
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