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by Lois P. Jones When did the sky find your eyes asking to be born there among cornflowers and ocean. When did a mouth say itself without opening lips pressed in practice for the kiss. What jaw can hold itself against harshness and the bite of the bitter apple and go on singing. The red drape steals your heart. It needs color to hang silent near a chiaroscuro--the shadow that bevels your neck quickens the sap of the pine and the darkness winter needs.
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