Liquid love, trickled from the spring, tightly wound, nursed by need, falling into insatiable containers, searching holes, but it’s soaked within pores. Trickled turned steady flows, no longer soaking pores, but nursing hands, and searching mouths. Gather in the folds,


Be kind to the edges, preen to
perfection, feel the hills, tenderly
exploring, meeting weakened
points. Eyes blind, mouth
full, ears filled


Relief, the flow a sigh, constant,
a moan? Grateful to be free, found
cared for. Account for the pores, where
is each one, within the hungered
grasp, belly consuming, a never
ending thirst.


Stuffed back in, weakend points
forgotten, fluid smoothed edges
ignored, shrubbery to replace
careful hands. Where has my
gardener gone, has the flow of
love stopped in the flow of time.


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