Find the breach in the green
that would let her slip through,
then tug meadow over the wound
like a sheet.
I've walked there, too: he can't give
you up, so you give in until you
can't live without him.
Like these blossoms, white sores
burst upon earth's ignorant flesh,
at first sight everything is innocence--
then it's itch, scratch, putrescense.
Written by Rita Dove
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