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little pink plane and the question of the quarrelsome quarantines

azalea trail

18 May
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What a leaf tickled my mouth tasted like air—through them in her window a light rose and fell. I loved a yellow crescent high color as a bruise thought about writing a letter.
Oh, a candle—her face and a glittering structure I beheld, wide as the brim of the earth. And an opening, a plurality of openings in the green of a two-story light. Could a face of hers reflect a word or gesture, could a voice of hers reach the warmth of the earth—if she looked down at me? Touched me like the salt in the light, danger in a round moment like the opening of a flower. I stepped on the peel of an orange and it curled around my shoe.