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your tongue was stapled to your lip
unable to pass words of
right/write the sun
if you can

caress each page as though your lover
said i do/i will
remind the pulse moving
under your skin

words are built for the afterlife
a scripture/sonnet/sayonce
for the misguided
lesser nurtured pairs

pouring sludge of earth
still, dirt is of the soil
that breathes live from the womb
and potholes

aren't deep enough
to keep
us
down