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by Jesse Ford in Oregon

The harvest of round
soft things, swollen
with sun, and stretched
against the tender skins so tight
you’d think they’d burst
And so they do
in their time, or mine
in my mouth, or yours

by Jesse Ford in Oregon

Wild turkeys wander
foggy morning fields, invisible
as the sun that is mentioning
its presence in a slow crescendo
of color, suggesting peaches and the roe
of fecund fish, rising in the east

We'll tell you what we're doing here... then maybe you'll tell us what you're doing there.

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