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and you will find that something

not to love about her
too-efficient beauty.

Fountain
pen-ink dashed about your head.

Thought wrings in the attempt to scratch

down something.
How she makes you feel. You feeling

dark enough to satisfy.

The scent of your foreboding sense of aftershocks.

/ /

Point of all departures.
She atones

somehow for wasted
nightingales. All these poems'

dark voice.