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the grounds are wet

bruised-blue

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dragging through the fogged valley

shrill horizons ahead

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a shore of flesh 

a blind winnow 

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I am the hunt for wind 

unteemed 

about the arms

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unbound moor

an answer

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a witchgrass molasses 

spilling from the gut

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blood pooling at the base of belly

cradled between thigh and calve fold

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sallow puce

the wet ardor

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In the search

I am found.

I am lupine 

in the frolic 

of things.

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