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Ann Creer

Ma Terre

I taste the Still
of hibernating beasts
the bristled fir
that clings to jagged claws
the ragged claws
that groan for guttered caves
the lonely howl of wolves
convulsed to find
the orphan whelp nursing
at clicking berries
cracked from winter's eyes
and I
the Mother of these howling pleas
split silently
within my twisted need.

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