The Slow Plod Of Justice Work

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Franklin Park 3/28/18

The fallen fir tree flows in sap yet, Dewy beads oozing from split branches, Still healing after we proclaim it dead. I heard once that tree blood’s an ointment, So I slathered it on the self-doubt gnawed into my cuticles. I popped a lump into my mouth, too, Maple sweet and bitter bite in one…