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After they notice the bushes are really more a vine.

Bees whir spring air around blackberries
like radio static, diffusely conveying nothing.
Time seals all wounds, she says with measure,
her voice sketching the image of a consoling mother
or a resolute lover, though she is neither.
Later, retracing her words and wondering
whether it was a simple slip of the tongue
or a mark of her mind, he will choose the latter.

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