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Crocus Fingers






Early spring comes after a misplaced winter
in crocus fingers,
impatient to point to the warming sun.

I look up, at their insistence,
tipping back my fervent face
to gulp the liquid light.

I will soak it in. I will carry it in my freckles
and in this blood orange
that you brought me, across four hundred miles.

When you return,
I will offer it all up to you,
in lips, sugared with citrus and a star's promise.


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