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She’s a delicate rose Found in flowery prose And I’m not her. ...
a Dusky Moor Hen drinks some of its home
I am a chick You don’t call it lit But I read it. I am the protagonist The girl who loses part of herself ...
The outline of horse’s hooves are tattooed into the drought baked road. White clay gravel hard, and the echo ...
in death she will leave the shape of a cat
grey dawn thin old moon alone and radiant
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Image courtesy of Galleysmith, Melbourne