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Publié par Moicani

 


Hands, you are apple-flowers
blown with the wind
(that smoothes the riper apples) over me,
over the mesh
where brown limbs notch I
nto the white of flesh.
Are you an apple-bud
from which desire bursts
with the wind, afresh?


Your throat tastes sweeter
than the yellow fruit
parched by the sun-on-rain.
Sweet your lips
red apple-flower hearts,
and the harsh quivering of your limbs
when Love,
darkens his lids and yours,
is harsh as wind
scattering frosted apples up the lane.

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