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Passing an Orchard by Train

Grass high under apple trees.
The bark of the trees rough and sexual the grass growing heavy and uneven.
We cannot bear disaster like the rocks- swaying nakedly in open fields.
One slight bruise and we die! I know no one on this train.
A man comes walking down the aisle.
I want to tell him that I forgive him that I want him to forgive me.

Poem by Robert Bly
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