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| Just Like Poor Tom's Hair Jared Stanley |
Arcadia you have a moon that you are made of moon grey and copse-color a far gauze lunaire, lunaire motley with skin gleams mere in its shitfulness like Poor Tom's hair a bric-a-brac attempt a glint to hide or rest in the undergrowth. White flag or heal-all, you send me kisses made of no because I'm made of money and don't care what the night is for in the capacious branch shadows. A figured owl in the teeth of mama nature's last laugh. Moon, you can't win. You're wallpaper, a head on the ramparts, or a compass of hinges in a city's sky. Free, free, free we are made of fire and you are made of cheese. |
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