First, SallyKristin Kelly
Came as her madness, but didn’t fess up. She stepped sideways, gathered a skyline—in it a flotsam of western larks, bric-a-brac, a sun badly rendered against a barn. She sat, a hat on her knee, asking for a something good to say. Words like crochet and croquet made her feel coquettish, then awfully. Please, she said, a song to edge this. Came then her chorus.
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