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    Poised to impale you, my cock turns a coring drill
   steadied to sound the rings that number your age.
   When it smarts, your stretch marks
   creak and lengthen into bark.
   I'll never bear your body's pangs of change.
   Bound for Baton Rouge by dusk,
   you chime in like a broken billboard,
   "Protect Our Wetlands," as I slow to observe
   the speed limit over the Atchafalaya Bridge.
   Dryad of tupelo, alder, willow, and cypress,
   in you the flesh of fruitful sunsets ripens.
   Where heart meets sapwood, a trace
   of the old country tempers the drawl of the new.
   Maybe no stab at truth could span the gulf
   that lies between two beings by very virtue
   of their being two. But O to be
   a banyan, dripping roots back down to earth.
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Author:Westbrook, J.S.
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
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