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in death she will leave the shape of a cat
you told me you loved it when the trees changed their minds and covered the ground with a million veined post-it notes ...
She’s a delicate rose Found in flowery prose And I’m not her. ...
The lights in the street are gold or white or blue.
The primitive grass says nothing of what’s to come. ...
I’m listening to Hurt, which Johnny Cash now sings: the needle’s in his voice, a ghost lends him its wings, and even with the clash ...
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After twighlight,
At her desk,
She ponders the implications of signing in crayon..