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Still life with weave
- University of Iowa Press
- Chapter
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Still life with weave Bruised the day myself, no rotten fruit parallel or adjacent. Outside, those meticulous woods named hold still flapping and flapping — Forget the planted seeds, mistress of the mister latching quietly the back door. Honey drip slow are you going is the bottle overrun by forgetfulness. Last time on vacation the postcard didn’t compare to weather shaking boughs of bridges: wood creak: performance. Smeared the window but I wanted you exact. Bodily whisk me to a feather bed, the air moisture soft and a large drink to taste. Stillness subjected to a motorcycle vavooming its way to Maine, suitcase waterproofed and city decals faded attest and keep bustling we will get there the gas tank half full. My profile as much a place as any, San Miguel, San Marino faceless. One horse in the woods not moving to apologize for the trickle, small stream washed you naked me elsewhere the wine just so the tablecloth just so let mister in it’s a feast today, frequent the small talk unfolding there is honey enough to make do, musicians booked from out of town: chamber music: solo driver it is not a racetrack allegro to halt so many delicious undertakings I shake then stop the window shatter you can smell the peaches pears the bed’s backbone is awash and cannot reach ground. [ 5 ...