Apricot Lament

Just when he thought to loom the backyard for bud &
Just when he came to admire, or thought to dote over
Already he rues stick-thin arms, whose petals brave the late
Whose middles freeze; we’ve gone without
All ramose till now, empty skirts anxious to round back for
It’s the fourth year lips have gone without any such
Already hips full of leaves and none
Else, years by last, the lone — it splat behind
My back, it came to ache as the rake clawed at
We’ve gone into partial burn, without even
No matter for bloom, the seasons no longer allow
The trouble with doting over blossoms is
In a swollen tub of ruth, wanting nothing but his

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