Associating the Dissociating

By the curbside, pressing a citrus
in between palms, sweet sour

punch makes her feet
stick. She becomes the grit

she eats upon. She grows on.
Hollowing for a citrus seed,

my job now is to dig a trench
for her choke. There is no one

inside the palms we save with.
Once is an enough forever.

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