Is It Poetry - Making Butter

After It becomes hard.
Can you not see,
as it blooms from the throat.
The odor of passion.

Which bleeds it is sweet.
Making butter it is deep.
There is no sadness at all.
Around the four corners of the mouth.

To look out from beneath the hood.
Both eyes they are running,
it is what it is that she sees.
Explosions,
of white spread from the bone.

Is It Poetry

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