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sluggish moon

the horses shouldn’t

be over there

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brown grasses

ashamed to go

into the dark

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everyone saw

the smoke

arrive

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plums in

the yellow wheelbarrow

start rotting

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a long month

till

the apples

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jay hears

the latch and

swoops down

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first day of

the Neruda

lottery

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more arguments

over incandescent

light

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on our walk

our hands bump

hard now and then

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the scent of

leaking conifers

in the dusty air

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