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45 45 45

fig.93) dyed nylon and plastic from spoons
Let me talk about your rose Your painted little rose beside the folded stream in the valley of time Let me talk about the lines the lens and all the things you've hardly been Let me try and doze With this trigger underneath my tongue Little lamb made of ivy Little lamb dancing home I see you in this bowl of peaches I hear about you in this song You're the shape of a quilted pillow Your angels are never young If ever I hear your people They'll spin like bubble gum

About Dona's plastic toys, "You put those guns in the hands of the people that start too early and they stay late, every time. You're too confident that they'll make the rounds again. There's that tall is in his eyes that are sad. They seem to make him feel a bit more than distant and bit less then he should. On a wet cold sweater day under the broad wall he's pretending to be a cold wet sweater on a different day. School is like this but it doesn't have to be.

Throwing bait at the pretty sounds of fish, paying-duck meets Ninja Pete, "goodbye tueday butt, goodbye Adirondacks." I've seen this show before. It never gets old. They might change the lens or dust the bulb but, so what.

"The asking of it's awkward, sir. The children are tumbling out through the doorway, rolling down the stairs and spilling from every open window like soft lumps of peat. They laugh at the sounds that we make and then they say they don't like noodles. Their boxes are up high and they point. They're filled with dextrose and enough starch to slow a broken-hearted train."

"There are certain arrangements, things that can make sense of what's happened around here. If you're sitting in a chair and you're looking at them, then the whole room will wake right up. Otherwise, its appearance is just drap and dudly. It might look like any other room except for all the brown and the math in the equations."

"Nobody is alone with their Peabody Award," that's the thing. No one knows what to say when they're by themselves either. Making all the birds red, taking the words they make and making them prayers for buttery shelf angels instead. Towards the end of my cup, upwards from the modest hole of foam and more foams spilt that's where I'll be. With everything else that the lake takes in hand or leaves behind at they edge of the city.

There's balding along the top like a frosted blonde seam that's fallen over a delicately folded lump of pudding. Stay with me, naked. I'll put a loose knit cap on this gray book yet. The worn cloth cover and the marbled ends are warm and they're dusty to the touch, "The hack eye'd witnesses steps step step light. The Pancreatic Human Lyft Society, out for another stroll. It's meat and high water for the right round, there's no more pain only vast amounts of train." Ok.

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