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1 h e C a L L s h e r e t s y The wire man springs off the metal pot filled with spanish moss. not that he needs to sit, with those trellis legs upright, the effort it takes to bend something like a knee, but he’s been with the boiled wool woman, admiring her seams and the way her waist makes a crook. she can’t stand on her own but she leans with grace on the glass emerald bonsai lit with sunlight that goes right through him. she absorbs the light, has a fullness the wire man can’t stop thinking about. If she says yes, he thinks, they will make love under the emerald tree, his sharp edges curved in, her rippable skin warm under her heart-pocket dress. Later he will make her a mouth. ...

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