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| From Its Cumulus Infancy Elizabeth Robinson |
QUENCH i. "Mum, mum, mum," what do you babble must be the quavering shadow of smoke "Wah," then, is water in blindness agile, quicker agitation flowing uphill alliterates into this clear space, a foreign language Buzzing here a yellowjacket or other predator of flesh: blood's honey in the milk you cry for every so often Yours, dryness or fullness Contagious or slept through ii. Night in yellow stripes, sibilant infant in the words beginning with "B" lined or banded They sting that "only want their portion" Beginning in the scorch-coated red bottle-brush tree And a figure curved fetal among those red filaments |
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