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Firefly

I do not agree with the way the hydrangea blossoms
when they rip open in the spring I walk right by them
I know they are there but I do not believe in their stink.
It reminds me of something, maybe
what was once my own humanity, perhaps
too much I know how it hurts.
Like how many insects had to die
before their own bodies
began to burn in the night.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   A Beaver and His Pile of Wood
   Firely
   Vera Beneath the Floor

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