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the late sun
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no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer
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the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
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The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
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Swallow the hook of happiness and mirth,
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are their flimsy hands just pointing, open,
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in exactly the same way that stone
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Just swerving memories
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My toes are dictionaries.
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The great story weaves closer and closer, millions of