Leaning forward head in hands
A seated woman weeping
I found hiking in the mountains
She could have been the moon
Glowing faintly in the milky
Morning light or the crone
Of some misery following me home
But she was certainly no vision
Real tears issuing from stone
She filled a cup and made me drink
A sour flowery taste of dark loam
With bits of the bodies of bees
I spit out with racking sobs
But now that I'd found her she said
I would never be left alone
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