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ScoreDora MalechBeneath the girder, fingers, five finer points dipped to a bowl of lemon water, lifted dripping. Larva feeding on the onions. Bone ash in the porcelain. Slept through the sonata, seasoned to taste and simmered, lashed the laths and dropped anchor. Beneath the curtsy, a batch of gingersnaps were priced to burn. Dora Malech Read Bio Author Discusses Poems |
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