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Cubits
By Paul Cameron Brown
A woman is a trough
hardly that - a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.
A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.
Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping -
a plane dusting crops.
A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core -
a marshmellow for a heart.
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