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Poem: Propitiator 

Silhouettes, defined against an early evening blue, the clean precision of a draftsman's line.
Approaching her table, I fight the urge to touch her cheek, gently rake my fingers through her hair to the warmth of her neck.
The long-tailed man spews forth gold-plated platitudes, the ragged configuration marveling at the light streaming from his mouth.
I am the last spring raindrop, the end of a lulling rush, absorbed into the mysteries of the lake; fading ripples echo this passing season.
Before darkness sets, the old farmer wrings the soil firmly, sensually,
a final plea under a moonlight that irrigates his fertile dreams.

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