picking it up from cobblestones and twisting it in thy soft palms
until all of it crumbles down unto the streets where thee once pranced
dearly in dear spring dresses with thy hair once so very blonde
but now deep and rich like the trunks of the pines which parade
within thy city: i see thy face illuminated by glass bulbs and torn
by winds from the lakeshore - still swiftly i see thy hair flailing
itself through such harshness, a power taken down through thy home
that buries itself deeply within thy moist skin, firm like the concrete
on which you tread in your city: without this boy to kiss in the trees
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