Luca Menin


The adapted


In prickly bramble
of berries' roses
in dove's nest
of pitch and straws
with thorns like knives
cutting their way not painfully but gracefully.
I bleed.
My grief flows
through the soil deep
like a wound that heals
stretching my roots underground
flawed adapting,

Submitted: Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, April 23, 2013
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