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Tabard and Terrace In a small town with a bad museum my wife died and her hair changed to amber, the color of the deep scar on her lip shaped just like a bird, safest in my mouth. There is so much that I want to believe it makes me wonder. Soft fields ambered onto strings of towns. Tabards of money. The night she lost the color of her hair and we sat on the terrace looking down to the sad novel of people dining. She died and no museum will take her. Nobody has any use for amber. In the place I live, in the sad novel and poorly lighted exhibition hall of that town, the fields, people, and money are deep scars like birds, safest in my mouth. 29 ...

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