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13 And where we’re here for supper tonight and keep a thing of whiskey by the leg of the table, and are nostalgic for the sense we have, which is graffiti, and in circles around us. This is how we like our nights and how we wind them. Our nights are an arm-around. I cinch our nights closer to us. They are first buds and branches’ weight; they are dark and enjoyable and to a bee. Where we traverse the dam and its conundrum, then replace it. Where a wind lifts at Heron’s foot and the wind goes through the night; the night is no location. Nets cast because they exist and we are where we walk, strong as cans, extolled by night. I paint a boat to display the night and take us to it. This piece is ours; is no scheme of cognizance. It does not repeat. I AM YOURS ...

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