as if i were
a self-planting furrow,
layers of deep earth
folding in over themselves:
in the warmth, i feel,
like your eyes,
rich as dirt.
one time i weeded on an aunt's farm:
the fineness of that soil
it got everywhere. and its moisture.
in the sun it looked deep and endless.
and when touched, it was warm
even in the deep places--
warmed only by the sun.
how much warmer i
under your regard?
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