Here, a bouquet of ankle.
Foolish iris, a purple field.
On my upper thigh, orchids.
My mouth is pathetic,
clumsy, desperate.
Those who know
how tenderly
this garden creases
sprout mottle marks beside me.
Salvia in tall plumes.
A memory made in elbows.
And these, these foolish wanting hips,
dig for lavender’s tartness.
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