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Calico Street Dark cannot be measured with hands the way a room can be marked with feet, shoe steadily in front of shoe. The way a fingernail doesn’t grow straight across (but in a sort of moon, matching the center at its root), the night will not be kept. Night is calico there and held high enough on a linden tree.The shadows of our legs stop short of road; we have no feet, no leaving in the night lit with orange lamps and bricks. Without knowing the extent, I kissed you back in a tiny room that was barely lit. 35 ...

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