Poetry: Grass

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There is grass between my bare toes,
there is heat on the back of my neck,
and your sweaty hand is resting in my sweaty hand, but neither of us let go.
That is all,
nothing is spectacular.
There are brown, brick buildings in all directions.
There are trees in cages,
there are children playing on the swings.
The grass tickles my legs as we lie down.
We have not loosened our grip,
and we both smile,
it is spectacular.

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