on my tongue
a seed once sung
where my wild oaks grow
where my red blood runs
where they tear my hair
and my teeth will dig
and find a pretty place to live
o' in the fingerling trees
that grab to rape the sun
and make the fruits of future thieves
small critter corns and nests
of tawny silver and ancient brass
with dewy sap sprung from the leaves
that glisten in the morning's dawn
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