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19 Golden-Clad Something Nice Pardon the gazpacho Ferrari-colored on Formica and the brie sinking into itself like quicksand by the sink. I didn’t think you’d mind competing flavors. For you, I’ve put the flies to sleep. The birds may watch TV. The willow weeps for you outside. I’ve bought an inexpensive tapioca for dessert. In the desert, children of Ethiopia spin naked in their shadows like tops on a Testarossa. No worries. The seven-layer dip is just like your mother used to make. When I was young, I made a bird of my hands and let it flap on the ground and die. No, that was this morning. Ten pounds of tomatoes I cooked for you. Funny how erasure tastes good. This is where sonnets normally end. Instead, we are having a nice time. I saw a special once: a city in Spain where inhabitants fight with tomatoes. I’m not sure if any birds were injured during filming. Imagine throttling your pathetic car through that city on that day, the film crew looking on, the tomato in the hand of every single person in that city just for you. For now, I shall bring you a crouton, which, if you don’t know, is the diminutive of crust. ...

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