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Pig Pen

In the afternoon, we three stepped out

into the golden Tuscan bright–

warming the soft fabric of flowered dresses.

 

We played in ancient pig pens,

stone ruins accustomed to swine

made perfect small forts for our short statures.

 

Then off to the olive grove

where distorted branches shaped

our own kingdoms –content to dig,

discovering the luminance of the fertile dirt.

 

Above our heads, the glowing fruit grew

its cloying fragrance filled every breath we breathed

enveloping us in a green and gold haven.

 

If we three went back tomorrow

our heads would protrude from those once-sovereign spaces

like bubbling warts on smooth skin

and the winter-white sun would stare.

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