1.
She is not the sort of woman for whom one buys flowers;
she is the sort for whom one builds gardens.
The pout, pursed into bow, the serpentine
arms, the hands poised as if
in the middle of a thought. Through almost thought
those hands make the table they lay on. The vase,
the spoon.
2.
A curl of fennel glides to those lips: commas
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