Tucked where mosquitoes bred,
Doris was waiting to be led.
Fifteen winters prior – under a stool,
You held your hand out to the whimpering fool.
Incapacitated swallow under a tree,
I told myself not to be.
Black sun of the horizon – those eyes,
There are lives in all them lies.
It was always you,
Yet you pretended you never knew.
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