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"In New York, After Diplomatic Training"
The good sides of a siege are not also those smudged by a horse. There's a face in the clause. Seven cherry trees. The notorious
seldom ever helps. He thinks mainly about his blades. Do the smaller and bushy help? Those seized below the deck?
The roots are to be followed to sand and sky. The leaves rumble on them. If there's no balance of silver and isotope--staffs--does it mean
we, too, can be happy? Without rocks, there is no pier. The shelter extends to the bottom. Objects are already sorted in the womb.
The creamy pigment sticks to some. Someone will have swelled English, a flayed stone in Potocka Zijalka. White dawn
that will suit him, dark green plastic to pile up. Ribs creak a bit on an uneven floor. You don't swing
your brain, you swing a dish. Once more you burn crumbs, a face, pathos. You yellow the black seed. I march nowhere. Honey flows
down my throat. Shed, breached, as if a machine gets dressed. Little barrels shielded us in the spirit of God's eye. We poured them out as we swam.
~Tomaz Salamun
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