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the gardens dyed silver. finally he was
less keen like an eaten bird, it wasnt my thing
the path diverged off course to a camp.
you were willing to grow a pomegranate inside.
here they were gods people with their quiet domestics,
the redheads were nicer however. the pram, was full with a baby,
‘dreaming’ of white museums. & white art.
trundling our things down negro st an unsurprisingly short one
our recommended fig the cottontails chasing each others cotton
you alluded to local songs translated into english,
but the marching band didnt strike them up & play
we decaffed in silence, taking points off the town.
it was still a kind of picnic.
kids escaped into shadows to avoid the flocking double bay weirdness,
like poetry it was a male scene, & soon
enough cured, sodden. we didnt read much there
adjusted a cloud. by the fire, ‘language, that great mystery’.
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