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I am getting my feet wet
at your behest, and I am cold and convex
and grateful, and scared of all that isn’t you.
And of you I am terrified.
I am old inside and growing young as wise
men will, as stems and blooms and leaves—
and thorns, all lovely
all pathetically tender.
I am a worker bee; my feathers are ruffled;
I want to slither away; I want to burrow down.
But I can choose, I can say
that all we are together is everything there is.