from The Mad SongMichael Schiavo
She wears the shirt as if it were an orchid. She, in the unlikely place. She repeats the phantom tomes. She lets the haphazard, and the significant. She stops in the square and alarms the pigeons. She, of the incarnadine. My own heart's Ohio, her. She is gorgeous of twilight, the maiden sure. She suffers the ancestors of quiet. She shakes the breakdown, then remembers her glory. Grand of spirit, she answers. She does not lessen the greenhouse to a whim. She braves me.
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