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When you come back to me
it will be crow time
and flycatcher time,
with rising spirals of gnats
between the apple trees.
Every weed will be quadrupled, coarse, welcoming and spine-tipped.
The crows, their black flapping bodies, their long calling toward the mountain; relatives, like mine, ambivalent, eye-hooded; hooting and tearing.
And you will take me in to your fractal meaningless babble; the quick of my mouth, the madness of my tongue.

by Ruth Stone
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