If my poetry
were a tree,
it would be a
Gemel,
–wikipedia for trunks entwined—
a natural graft
of
olive
olive
olive
yew
(an all of you, 2—explaining both sides)
with branches that supplicate
without replication,
leaves that drop without going,
and fruit that pleases as it poisons,
the limbs which tips I occupy
–would be solid olive—
extending to the heavens.
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