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57 Salamandrine I try to write the words of your body musclewood, half-tuned toward and away, steep these sweeps of turquoise, spiraled and steepled highway curve rolling over toward a lover rhomboids yielding a shoulder to the sunlight bank of asters water standing up inside the locked bar, the sealed dairy queen speaking of hope or hopeless in the same language, the frogs still number millions a moving .38 special stunned train, split fruit, trick mirror porchlight couldn’t properly coat your body even if made into a series of gasps sitting round as robin’s eggs in a nest like stars that have retired into speech after trying to grasp universal truth if you were mist, the downwind fallout palacious, salacious I’d fill my bank accounts later and my harbor first who said God would 58 a) not sleep through the night b) trickle down rather than rise up abalone all alone and still who said God wood wouldn’t burn bright and long the world couldn’t properly coat still, I’m left almost with a voice ...

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