Fall Aubade, with Window and BuzzMolly Tenenbaum
Somewhere a me beyond me. What gets up? Drifting white dots. Blind spot. I get it mixed, was it Out, brief that or damned candle? Miracle, trash trucks at all our houses equally early. With red stems make pink. Yellow jacket, yellow jacket, in whose world are you? What would not this sack but a filled-in blank get up to? Hours, and I'll be out to lunch, have read the Oxford's eight pages of Get: On, going, over, past. With mandrake. As in know, collect, As in the big It, as in git to a pesty puppy, poor thing, it's only its own geiger-tail, paddle-paw self, so what can it do but wag and dig, breakables falling, ground flying out from behind.
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