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California Twilight Late evening, July, and no one at home. In the green lungs of the willow, fly-worms and lightning bugs Blood-spot the whips and wings. Blue Asters become electric against the hedge. What was it I had in mind? The last whirr of a skateboard dwindles down Oak Street hill. Slowly a leaf unlocks itself from a branch. Slowly the furred hands of the dead flutter up from their caves. A little pinkish flame is snuffed in my mouth. 130 ...

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