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Irene McKinney – Ⅱ

Entreaties  (1) 





Hold me: don’t press me down.

I want to be the apple of your eye,

for I am very rosy, and my heart

contains five slick black seeds.

Admit these with a strict belief.

Hold on:  and press me

where I want to go.


Fold me, and crease my mind.

Filet the air around me, scent

the linen with an incense of delight.

Filter down the atmospherics of regret.

Go over all my dreams.  Find me, and

lathe me down.