I stand and admire the lines,

not always so straight.

The concrete veins through the places of old

we once walked,

through to the quagmire paths

where you first found my arm after stumbling.

The burrows, dark and secret, where lips pressed

against the soft feel of ripe naked fruit.

Canals, rivers, brooks, streams we have strolled along,

flowing the only way the valleys a...

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