(vi)
They sat among
my flowers
the vivid blossoms
of my sex;
expectant, infertile
– they looked at me – they stared, obsessed.
They followed me,
held my arm in a sharp grip
obsessed obsessed
transparent, searching
They held me off
examined me
avoiding my eyes
constructing my grave,
rehearsing my death
ceaseless obsessed obsessed
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Linnets Sing In The Trees 