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Short Love Sonnets
22.
The abandoned orange grove at the time
Of evening when blue becomes a glow of bruises
When the abandoned new oranges darken
With foresight, their skins
will never be touched,
will become the isolated letters of alphabets,
that although intensely longing
to be a sentence
will never be conjoined to form a single word.
The angular almsgivers are
in other publicized groves offering
illusory paragraphs to
the au courant poseur paupers.
A flutter of evening light on leaves,
hidden, an oriole.
Duane Locke
Posted over on The Red Ceilings
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