small poems & small plates
At the beach, he stared at the light. It was critical. Somebody shouted fire, and we quit. The breeze was fresh, foregone, iced as folded hands one wants to hold.
At the beach, he stared at the light. It was critical. Somebody shouted fire, and we quit. The breeze was fresh, foregone, iced as folded hands one wants to hold.
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