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Stroke

Poetry > Individual Poems

Honeysuckle is today's word.
Tomorrow it will be different
but exotic. A word to flower
on the tongue, to taste pleasure.

Now that words have become
detached from meanings,
she picks them out like treasure:
small blooms from a dark wood.

Gives them to things she loves:
ice cream, jujus, ice buns.
They throw open windows—
Delphinium. Bivouac. Hyacinth—

words stored for who knows how long
like bright marbles in a child's pocket.

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