In stilted a cappella I sing to handsome thugs: Make me a constellation with scissors and black paper. The garden has no gender but the speakers on ladders look female. We search the house for tea, black pepper, lemon. These keys are stubborn statements in frost. The rooms pleasured. Through real and fake fires like clean characters we stroll. Around the corner all things human. The terrace the sea. But there are differences in our childhoods. What you laugh at will make me cry. In the graduate greenhouses I imagine you a crow. Your horse your escape. I approve but why bother. You want to visit the ghost you can.
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