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Rind
Unpeeling the orange, I realize I've begun:
rushing to eat against the juice's drying out
and the air drinking deeply the powdery pith.
Outside the snow has begun to melt into
the salty mix, revealing the ground underneath,
earlier I gnashed, among it, my teeth
filled with the fibrous unweaving
of here and there, of what was and what
wasn't buried under it before:
let me tell you I never forgot the life
that collected stories in the juicy chambers,
and then sealed itself, deep, holding in all reason.
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