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LICHFIELD
INSTITUTE
When He Speaks
When he speaks
he has summer in his mouth;
languid words pulling me to sleep and
tides of strawberry curls prickling my skin.
In the morning you wake and step
into your ritual, bathing in the green
of a humid first, washing the salt
from your eyes with sweetened water.
I will collect you like a treasure;
tell me the worst of you and
I will polish it into
sea glade, delicate but
dull with stain of violet
and coral.
Tonight we tread over lush grass
blinking with barbs and thorns,
a caution and a reminder that
even the softest things can make you bleed.
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