Thorns.

I am hawthorned again.

Pierced and pushed up against the wall.

Fruit I bear, though bright,

is dry and bitter to the taste.

And yet sloe-stoned

as often I am, I have threshed

the husk of memory from many thoughts

of wild oats sown.

On dream-day bright Spring mornings,

I have dragged my roots across the shadow striped road

to suckle honey,

from a thousand of your breasts.

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