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The Orchard

The Orchard
Someone, fucking done with birds,
Took the time to cover the branches
Of the orchard trees in metal ducting,
Like the arms of young waiters asked
To cover up their sleeve tattoos.
When they wing close, the crows scare
Themselves away, which means more
Fruit for the couple who own the orchard
To step on and regret not picking.
The trees are the first boys with glasses,
The first girls with noticeable breasts.
They're mad to have to stand here
Like this, waiting for the photographer to
Take the damn picture
Already, blinking in the flash.

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