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It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to the moon tonight,
while writing your name
on a bikini top,
holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered
image of a little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?
Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?
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