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dog-eared, green, afternoons
when we lay so still on dewy grass
we could swear we’d become one.
I remember us,
still as hairpins, sharp as pruners. How our hands held on so tight,
I forgot which fingers were mine.
This was back when
each day was filled with green summer thirst. Back when
‘tomorrow’ was not much more than
a wild animal.
how the remains of those weeds we pulled out earlier
circled us. “As in ceremony”, I thought. I remember
hair tangled around bits of thorn.
How I asked you
if there was a name for how we felt. You said:
“Devil’s Bit Scabious”
And, when you laughed like that, the garden would sit and listen to the