. . . am peared by half

. . . Fools follow their fondness,
doting on those bad apples we (perhaps he)
would never have et
if we (he) had not been so shaken,
inflamed by the efflorescing flourish
of the flamboyant bowled blossom of a hand (her hand)
offering that boldly rounded and floridly deceptive fruit,
her other hand still curving around the smooth-barked bole
still shaking with the knowledge of difference and desire. . . .
.
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