These wheels remind me of spoons set deeply in a drawer of many spoons, of many knives. Like a poem which is really 5 or 7 poems when pen separates the bulbs. Gestures really. Whether Spring comes from wheels or bulbs, may she come.
A shift in the lanterns meant the wind was nearing aft. All was lined up, and I whispered to the button you had sewn inside my pocket, and ran a comb through my hair.
A shift in the lanterns meant the wind was nearing aft. All was lined up, and I whispered to the button you had sewn inside my pocket, and ran a comb through my hair.
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