Girl, a pinafore, the most gorgeous blooms there. That creeping patina.
The way the shutters hinged out, unspeakable. Maybe she thinks a pattern
into stones beneath her shoes. A pony, paint. Another thought into its bright:
a Lidy Prati. How to sing it? A whumpf sound, brume blown
through shirt's hung. Card clapping its spokes. Which am I, which are you?
it tickety ticked. Bicycle? Ball bearing? Scrap? Screw?
In the Theater of Everyone Down on the Floor Again.
At approximately 4:50 a.m. Horse become hold-all become split shot
become stun runnel become die cut become field of zinnias which bloweth so blithely
in the shock front, a rococo of, an ear-burst's yellow/black butterfly slick darksome.
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