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CLAIRE A. SMITH
the grounds are wet
bruised-blue
dragging through the fogged valley
shrill horizons ahead
a shore of flesh
a blind winnow
I am the hunt for wind
unteemed
about the arms
unbound moor
an answer
a witchgrass molasses
spilling from the gut
blood pooling at the base of belly
cradled between thigh and calve fold
sallow puce
the wet ardor
In the search
I am found.
I am lupine
in the frolic
of things.
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