Tag: 365 Collection
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We rose to the forest wishing us away, asking us to go back to America.
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a century ago, father told me there was an old man who had the habit of telling stories
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I ask. My words, dripping with fleeting hope, like honey from a baby’s chin.
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for leave of soft ignorance, and inescapable rhythm
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We noticed how most of the plots looked like poodles, overheard gardeners compare the superiority of sunlight in the plot versus their yards at home.
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I remember on the bus there is a word for a feeling
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most of my friends never met their fathers.
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Gaps between sounds deadened and dressed like a deer one day from rot.
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My people be water people so long they grew gills
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vaseline more high-top fade more pomade pressed
