The poetry of Michèle Vassal

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a pink moon is rising
and I am back
and your hair is the snaking bark of elder
and your skin is as sweet as spring’s first milk
as it has always been
don’t talk
let me unravel you
let me undo your storms
into soft ribbons of rain
let me
lick your blooded wounds
let me be
your quickening pulse
the shiver of your hand
on the curve ...

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