Daughter of garden, sunken in mud, let thy gravity uphold
the ignorance of our greed, let the inopportune hedge guide our bodies to the
cliff of the river so that our memories, a grouping of elements that
irreversibly corrects the anticipatory fathoms of our petals, darken to the sightings
of our underworld that melts our seeds until the hummingbirds and their
feathers wither and our vivacious bottlenecked scars dissipate.
- J. A. Kind
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