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71 A Day at the Lake with Gertrude Stein It’s a morning of sailboats, a morning of Gertrude Stein, and I’m reading her words, lounging with her sentences. It’s August, not hot, even cool on the point, the point where dozens of sailboats glide easy. Sky colors the lake, precious blue, blue sails, billowing petals. Boats bouquet drift apart while I sit here alone, alone with Gertrude Stein. Leaves flutter green, green branch swaggers swaggers like Picasso’s brush— clouds part to blue, roses can’t compete, no rose can compete, even a rose can’t compete with this. ...

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