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The Gardener

I tell you, “There are weeds in your hair, ”
and you squint up, roughened at the knees,
dirt between the frays of your jeans
and on the angle of your jaw.

The scene must have been this:
You, folded humbly,
so as not to offend the ivy buds,
placed your spade on the grass
without looking,

lashes lowered,
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