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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