food
the border is not
a lava vein
the wind
will tell you that
a pencil line
insults
crisp white paper
when used to divide
the border is
a butterfly’s torso
a wave’s dance
as it folds into itself
to begin anew
seeds and scent
come and go
la migra
impotently
looks on
on the threshold of a dream
a child
puts the sky
into a cup
and frees
ladybugs
oxeye daisies
undress
for first
sorrow
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