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I am not afraid … of rough spots … or lonely times … I don’t
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Press your knees against the mountain, or against
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Remembering glitter on the first river
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I open my mouth to the wind. The wind
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My story—hieroglyphics of scuff and blister.
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You want what runs out through a low visibility.
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My god, / in the dark his eyes burned so clear
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something / Large and old awoke. And then our singing
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I / am beneath that water.
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We are like a field … of wild flowers … unpollinated … swaying
