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Art Gallery waterwall friezes over.
We have velvet theories about boys becoming men, the mysteries of plumbing ...
The lights in the street are gold or white or blue.
The primitive grass says nothing of what’s to come. ...
sun after rain a fox dares me to cross her path
grey dawn thin old moon alone and radiant
little girl sweeps herself across the park a pretty burn of yellow cloth ...
The outline of horse’s hooves are tattooed into the drought baked road. White clay gravel hard, and the echo ...
Do my ears look big in this? You’d tell me if they did, Right? Cause my forearm clashes with my pants. ...
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