Machine Talk

Your yellow arm on my torso.                          Post                          cards of                          museum                          gallery salon restless lamentation.  hatchets              husbands new directions. clock fifty years ago, could we know of this turmoil.                          Not to destroy it:                          minister failure “Who knew?”  this construct monument... ill attempts at prosperity Across the street:                          little girls,                          pouty lips,                          black hair.              When in Las Vegas “I love you to death.”  I called.

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